


Sherlock Holmes and The Case of The Psychopath's Son

by delfiend



Series: My Sherlock AU [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awesome Molly Hooper, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Moriarty Is A Dick, Moriarty Kids, Moriarty is Alive, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-30 20:10:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 60
Words: 148,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3950113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delfiend/pseuds/delfiend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For starters, this isn't much of a Sherlock story. It's not really a John Watson story, or a Moriarty story either. This is the story of James, a boy placed in the care of Sherlock Holmes. As the title may reveal, James is the psychopath's son; he is James Moriarty Junior. And this is his story.</p><p>If you're still interested, here's a bit more. Over the course of the next 60 chapters, you will be brought along for the roller coaster that is James' life, starting at the age of three, when Sherlock first meets the peculiar boy and accepts his mother's plea for Sherlock's help, and progressing until... well, 60 chapters later. As you can imagine, a boy growing up with Sherlock Holmes has a life that's fascinating enough, let alone the added excitement and thrill that comes with said kid being the son of Sherlock's all-time nemesis. Lucky for them, Moriarty's dead.... or is he..? </p><p>You'll just have to start reading and find out!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

During “A Scandal in Belgravia,” prior to The Woman case

 

It was imperative for Sherlock to learn more about Moriarty, his foe, to learn of his weaknesses and more. A man of his intelligence, of his ego, though likely thinking very little of people—disposing of them left and right, as it were—would still be prone to indulging in admirers purely for his own enjoyment. And so Sherlock toiled at discovering at least one of these people, and perhaps exploiting them to get an edge over Moriarty.

Surprisingly enough, this person was not very hard to find, and they weren’t at all what Sherlock expected. He uncovered that Moriarty had been visiting—quite frequently, as it were—University College London. More specifically, he was frequenting a specific lab in the neuroscience department, where an American college student was studying abroad. A little more digging revealed more information on this student: her name was Marissa Alistar, she was twenty years old, a neuroscience major a prestigious university in America, sponsored anonymously to study at University College London in partnership with the Human Brain Project that was being worked on throughout Europe. She had published a handful of studies in her time in college, all of which contained impressive work but received little recognition. Her studies covered a wide range of subjects, focusing mostly on mind-altering hormone treatments, stimulating brain plasticity in rats to initiate recovery from traumatic brain injury, and even a bit of dabbling in keeping brains alive and functioning outside of its host. On top of this, it seemed she was receiving quite a large grant from an unknown source to further her research.

There wasn’t the slightest doubt in Sherlock’s mind that this Marissa Alistar was sponsored by and receiving funding from Jim Moriarty. There wasn’t anyone more perfect for the task Sherlock needed fulfilling; this girl was young, away from home, and dependent on Moriarty for simply money, not her safety or her life. Money could easily be arranged to spill a few secrets. Pulling a few strings, Sherlock arranged to meet this Marissa Alistar at his flat.

She arrived early the following afternoon; it had been drizzling since morning, though never reaching the point to consider it pouring. She arrived in an overcoat that was drenched, suggesting that she had neither hailed a cab nor walked from any short distance; she had come from far away and had made a point to walk the entire length; was she afraid of cabs, or perhaps she wanted to be watched, and potentially followed? Her coat was clean, but her jeans showed signs of animal fur of unknown origin—mouse, rat maybe, maybe rabbit—no doubt from whatever she experimented on in her lab; they were faded jeans, too, washed many times and yet still in use, though showing no signs of excessive wear, telling of her safe lifestyle. She wore converse shoes, black with neon yellow lining on the inside, only visible at the seams of the fabric. The shoes were worn, though had been cleaned and repaired several times, suggesting an air of favoritism, and yet they had been subjected to puddles and foul weather to get her here; why would she mistreat her shoes—perhaps it was absentmindedness, or the thought that the shoes could always be polished up later. Her hands were without gloves, shoved into the pockets of her coat; when she removed them, they were quite red, proposing the sort of harsh washing a scientist may subject their hands to after working with something potentially dangerous, perhaps a chemical, or a drug, or a disease. Her face was young, without an excessive amount of blemishes or signs of stress or age; she had a fairly thin face, high cheekbones, flushed cheeks—no doubt from the cold; her bottom lip was in poor repair, hinting to the gnawing done by her teeth, perhaps in stress or thoughtfulness; her eyes were a greyish blue, gazing about without the fear or worry Sherlock might expect in someone who was supposing trouble; if not, why did she walk so far if not to be kept an eye on? What _did_ she expect? Surely she didn’t believe the email when it pleaded with her to be interviewed on her pivotal work in the field of neuroscience.

Sherlock stared from atop the stairwell for only a moment as Mrs. Hudson helped the young woman with her jacket and fussed over how she would catch cold from being so soaked; the young woman was apologizing, assuring Mrs. Hudson that she would catch a cab on her way back. The moment passed, and he disappeared back into his study where John was busy at his computer.

“We have a visitor, John,” Sherlock remarked offhandedly as he quickly combed through the room, making a point of hiding anything that may be used against him, if Moriarty were to find out.

“A client?” John looked up from his computer, looking at the stairwell out of habit.

     “Not quite,” remark Sherlock, narrowing his eyes as he tried to recall if anything else in the room was worth stashing away.

     “Boys, you have a visitor!” called Mrs. Hudson from downstairs. “I’m sending her up!”

     John eyed Sherlock, trying to decipher from his expression what sort of guest they had coming up the stairs; Sherlock gave away nothing.

     Marissa Alistar entered the room with the slightest hint of apprehension, taking in the room at a glance as well as the two men waiting for her inside; however, this was not the sort of room one _could_ take in with a single glance. Marissa gawked in juvenile awe at the peculiar décor.

     “Hello,” she greeted with a nod, her American accent evident but not overly obnoxious, as they sometimes were. “I’m Marissa Alistar, from University College London… a-as of the moment, that is. How do you do..?”

     John waited for Sherlock to return the greeting, eyeing him as he didn’t; his expression had not changed, he had not moved, he was still considering the potential information all the objects in the room could reveal about himself. He hardly noticed their guest was already there, already taking everything in. John jumped to his feet with a bit of a sigh and greeted the girl with a smile and friendly handshake.

     “Dr. John Watson, at your service. And this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

     At the mention of his name, Sherlock finally came back into the world and noticed their guest in the doorway. He shook himself a bit as he took in a breath.

     “Ah, Ms. Marissa Alistar. I half expected you to decline my offer.”

     “As you should,” she replied just as evenly as he had spoken. The wonder in her face manifested itself in a knowing, somewhat playful twinkle of the eyes and subtle curve of her lips. A hint of sarcasm was creeping into her voice. “It’s not every day a brilliant detective decides to play reporter.”

     Very little changed about Sherlock’s expression, other than a slight cock of his head that gave away his peeked interest in her response. The sarcasm in her voice was comfortable there, and undoubtedly presented itself in most all her casual conversation; Sherlock was curious as to how Moriarty took to sarcasm.

     “Then you knew it was untrue.” His voice was still even, though gathering intrigue, eyes narrowing a bit. “So tell me, Ms. Alistar: do you know why you’re here?”

     She shifted her weight from one leg to the other; not a sign of being uncomfortable, Sherlock noted, but rather a force of habit. She was not used to standing still for very long, and yet she did not sit herself in one of many available chairs in the room. Was she remaining by the door for quick escape? No, she was perfectly relaxed; she fidgeted because she does not stand still often, and she does not sit, therefore she works—works tirelessly and diligently for long hours. Long hours? Yes, there were dark lines beneath her eyes, and no makeup attempting to hide this fact; perhaps she didn’t care to hide them because she had no one to hide them for, no partner or colleagues to be social with. This would make sense, as she was not from London and was now here doing research for many long hours, but it wasn’t the case; her ease of making small chat with Mrs. Hudson, her initiative to break the ice, her slip into a sarcastic, teasing tone: this was no socially inept woman. Perhaps she left the lines beneath her eyes uncovered because she didn’t think to cover them, because she felt no need to because she needn’t impress anyone; yes, such a confidence level—self-assurance verging on ego—coincided with everything else Sherlock had observed thus far. Did Moriarty appreciate this confidence, find amusement in it, or did it irk him?

     “I came, Mr. Holmes, because it was all very intriguing. I know who you are, and I was curious as to your motive for luring me here.”

     “Then you are aware of the risk showing up has imposed on you,” Sherlock deduced with a sharpness in his voice.

     She shifted her weight again, arms crossing themselves loosely; another force of habit, another display of confidence. “Quite.”

     John had been looking between the two of them, quite confused. “Wait, wait…. Sherlock said he was a reporter…? To get you to come h-… who even are you, anyway? What would he want with you?”

Sherlock looked at John and responded quickly and evenly. “Her name is Marissa Alistar, she is twenty years old, until recently has been studying neuroscience in America, who now is being sponsored anonymously to study at University College London, and though she has published many studies in mind-altering hormone treatments, stimulating brain plasticity, and in keeping brains alive and functioning artificially—which is all very impressive; I congratulate you, Ms. Alistar—she has received undeservingly low recognition for this work and has turned to accepting an unprecedented grant from a certain Jim Moriarty, who no doubt set the terms of her grant to include that she must come to London to study and that she must conduct any sort of study he need done whenever he sees fit.” He cast his eyes back at Marissa. “Am I wrong?”

She was not shaken up by his insightful outburst, but rather stood as she had before, now sporting a rather beautiful grin of amusement. “Not the least bit.”

John looked at her, face frowning and eyes rather intense in utter surprise. “You work for _Moriarty_?”

She raised her chin a bit, smile disappearing as she became a bit serious. “Not at all,” she assured, turning her head to address Sherlock as she continued to answer John. “I am not a pawn in that man’s game to be moved when convenient, held in limbo when unimportant, then used to get ahead, and sacrificed when it’s all said and done. That may have been the idea at some point, but I have been moved off the playing-board. I wouldn’t say Jim and I are friends, but we’re rather like-minded colleagues…. of sorts… that man doesn’t have friends; that’s not how he plays. It’s….. quite complicated. He’s a complicated man. Or rather, _complex_.” She broke off for a strenuous sigh, pawing at her eyes, suddenly drained. “You understand, don’t you? You’re not very straightforward yourself, are you Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock did not break his gaze when she looked up at him, eyes full of doubt and hope and innocence and wisdom; such crowded eyes, no wonder they bothered her. He was taking in her words, processing the tone in which they were said, the involuntary motions that accompanied them. She was telling the truth, or at least part of it. She was trusting Sherlock before he trusted her, something all simpler people do; but she was not trusting him with everything, thus she was not quite as simple as she might seem. _He’s a complex man_ , she had said. Are complex people not drawn to one another?

“No,” Sherlock answered, having spent but a brevity of time weighing her words. “You are quite wrong, Ms. Alistar. I am very straightforward. But that doesn’t make me any less complex.”

“Please,” she said, her voice taking on a serene softness and picking back up the confidence that talking of Moriarty had made her abandon. No, the confidence was always there; it had simply been smothered in worry and doubt—fascinating, really.

“Call me Missy.” That playful little smile returned to her features, and her eyes flickered away the jumble of emotions, leaving an easygoing wittiness in their stead.

“Well then, Missy,” Sherlock said, expression becoming a bit less serious, perhaps even a ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “Allow me to properly welcome you to 221B Baker Street.”

The three of them sat in the armchairs available, and Mrs. Hudson brought them all tea as they chatted away. They weren’t discussing Moriarty; not at first. For Sherlock had a real fascination with the work Missy was doing, and was overjoyed he could pose his questions and provide his input, seeing as how Missy was really not a threat. Not to mention that Missy was simply a delight to talk to. Her humor and wittiness was permeated with an acute intelligence that Sherlock found to be rather refreshing. She understood loads on how people think, specifically different and complex people like Sherlock and Moriarty. Sherlock found her to be accepting of almost everything he did; his outbursts of prying observations, his thoughtless disregard for boring conversation, even a number of his childish habits caused her no discomfort or anger or stress. And for the first time since Sherlock could remember, someone had laughed at his deeply intellectually steeped humor. In fact, Missy couldn’t stop laughing.

With his questions answered and his suspicions appeased, Sherlock turned to business once more. “Now, about Mr. Jim Moriarty…”

John grew rather serious for a moment, looking up from his tea at Missy. “Are you sure you want to disclose information about Moriarty? Won’t that put you in danger of some sort?” Only a few minutes ago John had been suspicious of her, Sherlock noted, and now he was bent on ensuring her safety. Fascinating what a little conversation can do.

She shrugged. “Don’t know. I suppose if you went and told him we had a chat about him, he’d become quite irksome… but what would he do?”

“Oh I don’t know, kill you maybe…!” John’s worry was increased by her nonchalance.

She laughed, laughed as if John were being preposterous, but neither John nor Sherlock could see what was so unbelievably funny.

“Kill _me_?” she giggled, getting a hold of herself and sitting back up in the armchair, hugging her right leg that was tucked to her chest and resting her chin on the knee; she had made herself comfortable, but she was showing insecurity as well. “First of all, I’m going to assume you two _weren’t_ planning on rubbing this meeting of ours in his face. Second, the last thing he’d expect is that you’d get information from me. He thinks highly of you, Sherlock; he’d think you figured it out all on your own. Oh, it would frustrate him, definitely! _How did Sherlock know this and that_ , he would whine. _How did he know, Miss Missy?_ And I would say, ‘He’s a clever one, that Sherlock Holmes!’ And that would be that. Of course, I’d throw in a handful of compliments, highlight a few of his own accomplishments; you know, appease his ego and all, put him back in a decent mood. But it _really_ is that simple!”

Sherlock sat musing, legs crossed, hands pressed together at the fingertips, resting them against his lips. Was she bluffing? Double bluffing? No. He had been observing her constantly, and he had come to expect an honesty that she was never afraid to put out. She was, in fact, an honest girl, matter-of-fact, very bright. But she, too, housed an ego that was common in scientists. She very well could be fooling herself, thinking she has far more control over her situation with Moriarty than she truly does. Or perhaps her confidence was well placed, and she actually _had_ that sort of control over incredibly unstable Jim. Perhaps the song to soothe the savage beast was as simple as compliments and schmoozing. Sherlock doubted it was that simple.

“Everything said here will not leave this room,” Sherlock assured both his guest and his friend. “I simply wish to understand who I’m dealing with from a different angle. I promise you: this information will be kept locked away in my head and will not be revealed to anyone else, no matter how useful such information might be in certain circumstances.”

John was appeased, or perhaps relieved was a better word. He was not keen on getting young women killed for an honest chat with the wrong people. Missy nodded at Sherlock, who observed a release of tension from her shoulders and a subtle look of relief flash in her eyes. So she _did_ know better than to think she has complete control over Moriarty. Or was she glad her “friend”—for she had called Moriarty such on several occasions during their conversation, unbeknownst to her—would come to no harm from what she might tell about him? Perhaps Missy found herself in a delicate balance between these two truths. Undoubtedly, this was the case.

“I only ask for you to speak of what you wish to tell, Missy,” Sherlock continued, internally caught up in deciphering the intricate puzzle of half-truths that was his guest. “If I inquire something you do not wish to tell, feel free to ignore me.”

It took a brief amount of time before Missy spoke up. She stared into her cup of tea, which had long been empty, no doubt thinking of everything she knew and all the repercussions revealing such information would have. When she did speak up, her words came out slow, thought out one by one in her utmost care, like tiptoeing through a minefield.

“I can’t say I know too much about his profession…”

A lie, thought Sherlock, who knew better than to blurt it out. She was a scientist; her job was to ask the hard questions and seek out answers to them. There was no doubt in Sherlock’s mind that she had found answers to her questions about Moriarty, as well. However, interrogation of this sort—allowing the suspect to openly discuss information, growing their trust, having them say more and more—took a great amount of patience and a sizable sum of time. Eventually, she would tell Sherlock everything he wanted to know. Eventually, just not today.

“But I know quite a bit about him personally… a-as a person, I mean.” She paused there, looked up to study Sherlock’s expression. What she saw was interest, mild and harmless. She continued with growing assurance.

“You can learn a lot about a man by how he plays chess. Especially when that man is as intelligent and brilliant as a man like Jim. You can’t be sure what you’re learning about them until you play many games, though; you have to look for a pattern, or a lack of one—that reveals more about them too. Mr. Moriarty and I play a lot of chess; he loves chess. To him, the whole world is represented on that chessboard, and he’s in charge of what happens. The first thing he always does is play his pawns. While most people would want to just get their pawns out of the way—open a path for their bishops and rooks and queen to get in the fray—Jim uses his pawns, he doesn’t let them go to waste. That being said, he never feels hesitant about sacrificing his pawns. In fact, he doesn’t distinguish between sacrificing his pawns and sacrificing his queen; to him, they are all just pieces, all just vesicles with which he’ll achieve victory _._

 _“But that’s all they are_ , you might say. _Just pieces in a game_. Not to Jim. Not to those who see the world in a chessboard. People are like chess pieces, and thus chess pieces are like people. To him, it doesn’t matter if someone is a major player in his schemes or a one-time fling, they’re all disposable to him. Everyone has the same disposability; they’re all people, and people die. Its human nature, you see, for people to rank themselves. For people to say _I’m important so I’ll be valued and protected_ , or _I contribute more than they do, so they’ll be dead before me_ ; Moriarty doesn’t think like that. Whether people do work for him or die for him, as long as they’re getting him ahead, he doesn’t care.”

Sherlock was intrigued once more. From what Missy was saying, Moriarty sounded like a reckless man, weighing his accomplishments and his mistakes in one boat and thinking himself grand. But Sherlock knew better than to jump to conclusions; Moriarty was a clever, clever man. There was much more to his character than simple recklessness.

Missy continued; she was in her element. “Now, how someone treats their king—the king representing themselves of course, since the game ends when the king is taken—that is a very important aspect of who they are as a person. It took me a long time to really pinpoint Moriarty; a complex man houses a complex strategy. Jim plays his king like he plays all his other pieces. He puts the king at risk, uses the king to take other pieces… it all seems rather foolish at first, putting your king at risk, putting the end just one clever move away. But Moriarty protects his king from all angles; trust me, I’ve checked every last one. You never really realize that the pieces guarding the king are actually doing so; they seem like they’re just sitting around, waiting to be played. I don’t doubt Moriarty always has all his sides covered, too. He never has a scratch on him, it seems!”

John blinked several times, leaning in. “I’m sorry, but I thought you said you didn’t know anything about Moriarty professionally.”

“I said I didn’t know _much_ …” She clammed up, tension returning subtly to her shoulders.

Sherlock knew when his information session had been spoiled, and it was just so. John had pried, and Missy had resisted. She would not be revealing anything useful for the rest of her time there. Sherlock stood suddenly, drawing in a sharp breath as he did so, fetching his coat from the couch.

“It has been fun, Missy, but John and I must be off.” He pulled on his coat, eyeing John with a look of exaggerated surprise. “We nearly forgot all about our case!”

John was clearly confused, frowning immensely; the two of them didn’t _have_ a case. Fortunately, Missy needed no extra excusing.

“Right, I must be off as well,” she concluded with a nod as she rose from her chair with the speed of youth. “This was fun, Mr. Holmes. I would very much like to do this again sometime.”

The two of them descended to the main floor, where Sherlock opened the door as Missy fetched her coat.

“I will be in touch,” Sherlock ducked out the door, hesitated, and looked back at Missy with a smile. “And please, call me Sherlock.” The door shut. He was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

One month prior to the events in “Reichenbach Falls”

 

     The apartment of the neuroscience student was dark apart from the light radiating from the screen of a laptop positioned at a desk. Missy was hard at work, as she had been for hours. When she had started her examination of the data collected in her lab, there had been plenty of light flooding the room through the windows. Since then, the sun had set and night had settled on London.

     On her desk sat a laptop, as well as an empty bottle of Coca-Cola, an empty bowl of macaroni and cheese with spoon, and her cellphone lying face-down. Missy had one hand resting on her mouse, her other arm with elbow resting on the desk, her chin and mouth pressed against a closed fist in deep concentration, eyes staring unblinkingly at the spreadsheet of rough data: numbers, dates, and times, all jumbled up, concealing some pattern Missy was simply not seeing. She had arranged the numbers in graphs many times over, and was still no closer to connecting the dots. She would have continued this trend if she hadn’t heard the door to her apartment shut quietly.

     Missy looked up from her work to gaze over her shoulder back at the entrance to her apartment. Staring back at her was a wall of thick darkness, made thicker from her long exposure to her illuminated laptop screen. Out of the darkness echoed faint footsteps, steady and slow. Then silence. After a minute more, a voice called out thickly, monotonous.

     “Mind if I switch on a light?”

     Missy immediately relaxed. “Yeah, please. I didn’t realize it got so late.”

     The light switched on with a quiet hum, revealing the walls and furniture of the studio apartment, and Jim Moriarty.

     “Working hard or hardly working?” he inquired in the same tone, adding intonation and stresses where he pleased.

     Jim was a man to be feared, a man who constantly looked as if he loathed the world; and who was to say he didn’t? His eyes gazed dully as if in a daze, his face often blank as well. But all too often from his face of subtle emotions and humorous expressions came an outburst of terrifying anger. Psychopathic anger, in fact. At first Missy was paralyzed by such outburst, but slowly she grew to understand Moriarty better, to read his emotions not from his face but from other cues. The more she got to know him, the less he acted unpredictably; maybe this was because Missy simply became able to read him like a book and predict his every move, or maybe it was due to Jim’s growing ease while around her. Most likely, it was a combination of the two.

     Missy turned around in her swivel chair to face him, offering up a genuine smile.

     “Always working hard for you, Mr. Moriarty.” She stood, gathering her dishes from the desk. “Had anything to eat, Jim…? I have some food left over if you want it.”

     He was following her movement with an exaggeratingly placid motion of his head.

     “Yes please.” His voice was high-pitched and thick again, pitiful almost, like a pouty child.

     Missy placed her dishes in the sink and filled a bowl with macaroni and cheese, reheating it in the microwave, aware of the dull eyes watching her every move. She grabbed another Coca-Cola from the fridge, retrieved the newly-warmed bowl of food and brought them both over to Moriarty. He had lounged himself comfortably on her couch, as he often did when he visited. Missy placed the food on the coffee table in front of him and took her place in her lounge chair. Moriarty loafed on the couch a little while, gazing about the apartment in indifference before suddenly sitting up, taking interest in the food and beverage and eating.

     Missy watched him eat, thinking of the first time she convinced him to drink a Coke. She was testing different substances to see what caused increased attention in rats—a request made by Moriarty, of course—and found that the combination of caffeine and sugar was a very potent stimulant, helping to improve mental performance. He had then inquired what he could consume to get both caffeine and sugar; Missy told him Coca-Cola. He always drank one when he came to visit ever since. Thoughts of her work made her mind wander, so much so she didn’t notice when Moriarty began to stare; no for a while, at least.

     Her eyes trailed until they were gazing into the expressionless eyes of her psychopathic colleague, snapping her out of her daze.

     “Anything I can do for you..?” She was happy to play host to him whenever he showed, which had quite frankly become almost a nightly occurrence.

     “You’re so… _ordinary_.” He smirked, voice oozing like honey. “It’s absolutely _adorable_!” He stretched out the last word, left it hanging in the air.

     Missy had heard it a thousand times over; she got up with a sigh. “Gum, Jim..?”

     She fetched it despite the lack of an answer. She popped a piece in her mouth before handing him the pack. Jim stared at it, then at her, taking the pack, slowly placing a piece on his tongue, and then began chewing with a big goofy smile. The rest of the pack slipped into his pocket.

     “How nice of you.” The words were coming through his teeth like a snake, somewhat muffled by the constant motion of his jaw.

     Missy returned to her computer and kept at her work, finally finding the correlation she had been searching for. Her keys clicked musically as she typed; the only sound in the room between her pauses was the smacking of Moriarty’s gum. They spent an hour like this, not talking; it was normal between them.

     Moriarty eventually got up from the couch and explored the apartment as he had a thousand times before. He was rather fond of the small place, rather fond of every nook and cranny with which he had become familiar. This little apartment was most definitely the closest thing to home Moriarty had, especially because of the extraordinary ordinary person who lived there. How special she was, how she didn’t believe anything she didn’t learn for herself. He loved to tease her ego, which was enough to possibly even rival his; he could toy with her emotions all he wanted, but she never lost her dignity. At first it was frustrating for Moriarty, who wanted to exercise his full rein of control over her, but then he realized his full rein wasn’t as “full” as he thought. And despite all this, she had given him no reason to despise her; she was kind, patient, and best of all viciously smart, a little sociopathic even. And so he didn’t; he just kept on using her for her laboratory expertise.

     He couldn’t see why Sherlock would bother himself with someone as dull and ordinary as John Watson when people like Missy were as easy to snag a hold of as fish. Though you can’t teach fish as many tricks as a dog…. No, Missy wasn’t a fish. She was a hawk, fetching Moriarty what he wanted, but dangerous all the same.  A voice cut into his thoughts.

     “Are you staying here tonight, Jim..? I’ll get the sleeper sofa ready if you are…”

     Moriarty gave her a sideways glance. She had such a pretty face when she was exhausted. Pretty enough to smash in, he thought. He looked back at the bookshelf he was examining the contents of.

     Missy heaved a sigh, pawing at her eyes. Getting up stiffly, she pulled apart the couch in order to transform it into a bed. She fetched sheets out of the closet, making the bed up.

     “There you are, Jimbo,” she teased, catching a nasty glare from him.

She laughed it off. Moriarty seethed, then rolled his shoulders, no longer as bothered by her teasing as he had once been. If he should pull her strings like a puppet, why shouldn’t she tug at a few of his? Because he was the _puppet_ _master_!!! No, Missy was no puppet. She was an instrument, from which he could coax a beautiful composition, but with the give and take that she might sing out a disharmonious chord to spite him. To smash the instrument would mean no more music, and so the gross chords were tolerated, taken in stride.

Another handful of hours passed with Moriarty feeling at home in the little apartment. He looked up from Missy’s collection of origami when he realized the absence of clicking keys, searching the room for her. His eyes stopped when they found her in bed, curled up in a mass of blankets, out cold. For once, Moriarty was at a loss of what to think. Why had she gone to bed before him? Didn’t she know he could kill her right here and now?

Silently, he made his way to her bedside, aware he had the ultimate upper hand but unsure of what to do with it. He cocked his head slowly. Her hair was in her face, all tangled and matted and wet; she must have showered. Slowly, carefully, he brushed the hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. How absolutely tired she was. Suddenly, a pang of remorse grappled in his chest. _He_ had made her this exhausted. And she let him, because they were… what? Master and slave? No…. they were friends. Maybe not equals, definitely not equals, but friends was good.

Moriarty turned off the light. The room was cast into darkness, but Moriarty saw everything; this was the closest thing to home he had, especially because of the extraordinary ordinary person who lived there. He made himself comfortable on the sofa sleeper, looking once more at Missy across the room. She sighed peacefully in her sleep, pulling the covers tighter around her. He stared, stared until he was taken from the darkness of the room to that of his mind, waiting for morning to come.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

During the events of “The Empty Hearse”

 

     The phone sang out in the silence, breaking Missy’s concentration. She jumped, startled, looking first at the door to her apartment, and then at her phone. Shaky hands picked it up, answering and bringing it to her ear.

     “H-Hello…?” She swallowed with difficulty. It was a bad day.

     “Missy?” The voice was familiar, but she couldn’t place it with her mind in shambles. “Missy? Are you alright? You sound awful.”

     She didn’t answer. She remembered the person that voice belonged to. She was slowly rising from her chair, spooked and thrilled all at once.

     “Sherlock?” Her voice was disbelieving, not trusting her ears. “Sherlock Holmes? Aren’t you dead?”

     “What? No, no. It was all a ruse, nothing more. Are you sure you’re alright?” Silence followed. “Missy?”

     There was a click on his end; the call had ended.

     Missy was in a state of mortified euphoria, looking at her apartment. Like her, the place was a complete mess. The couch was still all folded out as a bed, as it had been almost three years now. The sheets were left as they were, tossed aside as if they had been slept in the night before. The rest of the apartment mirrored the chaotic state of the fold-out bed: clothes littering the floor, dishes pilling up in the kitchen, food left out and rotting, and paper—there was paper absolutely everywhere! Every surface that wasn’t otherwise occupied was covered in papers detailing all manner of research, data, and news articles. These were articles about Jim Moriarty. About his crime, about his court case…

About his death.

     This had been the breaking point for Missy, the girl who waited up late hoping to hear his chilling voice call out in the dark, to see his tired face again, to feel the sting of his comments and start at his outbursts. The longer she was without him, the more she missed him, missed the thrill, missed the feeling of swimming with a shark, running with a wolf, tangoing with a psychopath…

     Naturally, her work in the labs suffered as much as her heart did. No Jim Moriarty meant no funding. Only through tireless work on matters Missy found dull and beneath her talents did she secure some meager funding once more. That’s when she began to see the bars, feel her limits pressing on her; she had been caged, and the man who had given her a taste of freedom, the man with the key—he was dead.

     The sound of her apartment door slamming open shook her from these reeling thoughts; the door had been unlocked since Jim Moriarty had walked out almost three years before. Sherlock stood there, a look of panic in his eyes as he stared at her, stared at the mess of an apartment, realized the lows that had been reached.

     Missy stared at him. She began to cry. She had always meant to cry; she just never seemed to find the time. Her knees gave out, her hands were useless in catching her as everything went black.

     Sherlock was with her when she came to. They sat on the bed, his arm around her shoulders, comforting, calm, reassuring. Missy couldn’t stop the trembles in her hands, the racking of her whole body. The crying came in waves, hitting her unexpectedly and leaving her a wreck of emotions. Sherlock sat with her through it all, keeping silent. But eventually, Missy was able to breathe calmly again; the shaking persisted, but it was manageable.

     “No one looked after you,” Sherlock noted softly, musing sadly. “Not like they did for John…”

     Missy shook her head, drawing in a trembling breath. “No… I doubt it crossed anyone’s mind that I might need looking after…”

     “Hm….”

     Silence persisted for another minute before Missy looked at Sherlock, who sat deep in thought.

     “Sherlock,” she said carefully, catching his attention. “I-I-If you survived…. do you think…. maybe...”

     His brow creased as a feeling of sympathy and resolution hit him like an unpleasant aroma. “No, Missy. He shot himself through the head. I saw it with my own eyes. He’s not coming back.”

     She turned away from him, gnawing her bottom lip as she was prone to do. Sherlock noticed the blood that began to drip and fetched her a clean washcloth from the apartment closet, struggling to navigate across the cluttered floor. She took it from him shakily, pressing it to her lip, staring into space as a new wave of grief consumed her.

     Another hour or so passed in silence between the two of them; Missy had calmed again. She began to talk; she hadn’t talked to anyone on a personal level in nearly three years.

     “Sorry about the couch,” she began with a half laugh that was full of anguish. “Jim had slept here… before he disappeared…. a-a-and I just-…. if he were to come back… I-I wanted things to be all set for him…”

     “Understandable.” Sherlock hated to see the brilliant woman he had come to admire reduced to such shambles because of Jim Moriarty, or more accurately, the absence of him. He had been a drug to her, a thrill, and now he was gone, and she was left in withdrawal, unable to escape. Sherlock understood all too well what that was like.

     She gazed around the apartment, finally seeing it for what a dump it was. “I suppose I should do something about this mess….”

     She got up and began to gather up all the papers and articles. Sherlock watched, noting the topics. Data on psychopathic behavior, articles on Moriarty, papers and letters pleading for grant money. He stood and began to help her clean; he wanted to see her life put back together again without the undue influence of a psychopathic criminal consultant.

     The two of them had just finished straightening up the studio apartment when their focus was disrupted by the chiming of Sherlock’s phone. He gave it a glance; it was John. Sherlock sighed a bit, looking up to catch Missy staring at him. He frowned as he observed countless indications of her desperation and desolation. He plucked a sticky note from her desk, scribbling down his phone number and sticking it to the wall in plain sight.

     “If you need _anything_ ,” Sherlock said with assurance. “Anything at all, please, _please_ call me. I’m here for you Missy. You’re not alone. I promise.”

     He was cut off as the woman tackled him in a hug, face buried in his scarf. Caught off guard, Sherlock could only look at her with worry and sympathy.

     She pulled away slowly, realizing she was behaving irrationally, childishly. She looked at Sherlock again, his serious face, his messy hair, and was overcome with the desire to tell him everything, absolutely everything. But then she caught the stare of a face on a newspaper, peeking out from the trashcan. It was the face of Jim Moriarty. Almost instantly, the desire retreated, chased away by fear, fear that was grounded in trust, affection, love, and the utter danger she would be in if her secret was revealed.

     “Thank you, Sherlock….” She pulled her eyes away from the face in the garbage, looking again at the consulting detective with whom she had gotten back onto her feet. “I’ll call if I need you, I promise.”  
            Sherlock looked at her with intrigue. Oh, she was hiding something, alright; that much was clear as day. But Sherlock couldn’t begin to imagine what was worth hiding despite the fact that Moriarty—for whom she was undoubtedly keeping the secret for—was most definitely dead. Perhaps it didn’t matter. Sherlock had dismantled all of Moriarty’s web of contacts and connection; Missy was in no danger, and she would never be again. Satisfied with this conclusion, Sherlock showed himself to the door, pushing aside his curiosity over the secrets Missy was keeping.

     “I’m glad _you’re_ not dead, Sherlock,” Missy called quietly. “One brilliant man dead is far more than enough for me.”

     Sherlock flashed a polite smile, receiving one in return, and shutting the door behind him. If she had to pick, would Missy have wanted things to turn out as they did? With Sherlock alive and Moriarty cold in the ground? No, she would have done absolutely everything to save the both of them, even if it cost her own life. Sherlock was worried all over again, glancing back at the apartment building as he climbed into a cab. _What was the secret she was keeping?_


	3. Chapter 3

During the events of “The Empty Hearse”

 

     The phone sang out in the silence, breaking Missy’s concentration. She jumped, startled, looking first at the door to her apartment, and then at her phone. Shaky hands picked it up, answering and bringing it to her ear.

     “H-Hello…?” She swallowed with difficulty. It was a bad day.

     “Missy?” The voice was familiar, but she couldn’t place it with her mind in shambles. “Missy? Are you alright? You sound awful.”

     She didn’t answer. She remembered the person that voice belonged to. She was slowly rising from her chair, spooked and thrilled all at once.

     “Sherlock?” Her voice was disbelieving, not trusting her ears. “Sherlock Holmes? Aren’t you dead?”

     “What? No, no. It was all a ruse, nothing more. Are you sure you’re alright?” Silence followed. “Missy?”

     There was a click on his end; the call had ended.

     Missy was in a state of mortified euphoria, looking at her apartment. Like her, the place was a complete mess. The couch was still all folded out as a bed, as it had been almost three years now. The sheets were left as they were, tossed aside as if they had been slept in the night before. The rest of the apartment mirrored the chaotic state of the fold-out bed: clothes littering the floor, dishes pilling up in the kitchen, food left out and rotting, and paper—there was paper absolutely everywhere! Every surface that wasn’t otherwise occupied was covered in papers detailing all manner of research, data, and news articles. These were articles about Jim Moriarty. About his crime, about his court case…

About his death.

     This had been the breaking point for Missy, the girl who waited up late hoping to hear his chilling voice call out in the dark, to see his tired face again, to feel the sting of his comments and start at his outbursts. The longer she was without him, the more she missed him, missed the thrill, missed the feeling of swimming with a shark, running with a wolf, tangoing with a psychopath…

     Naturally, her work in the labs suffered as much as her heart did. No Jim Moriarty meant no funding. Only through tireless work on matters Missy found dull and beneath her talents did she secure some meager funding once more. That’s when she began to see the bars, feel her limits pressing on her; she had been caged, and the man who had given her a taste of freedom, the man with the key—he was dead.

     The sound of her apartment door slamming open shook her from these reeling thoughts; the door had been unlocked since Jim Moriarty had walked out almost three years before. Sherlock stood there, a look of panic in his eyes as he stared at her, stared at the mess of an apartment, realized the lows that had been reached.

     Missy stared at him. She began to cry. She had always meant to cry; she just never seemed to find the time. Her knees gave out, her hands were useless in catching her as everything went black.

     Sherlock was with her when she came to. They sat on the bed, his arm around her shoulders, comforting, calm, reassuring. Missy couldn’t stop the trembles in her hands, the racking of her whole body. The crying came in waves, hitting her unexpectedly and leaving her a wreck of emotions. Sherlock sat with her through it all, keeping silent. But eventually, Missy was able to breathe calmly again; the shaking persisted, but it was manageable.

     “No one looked after you,” Sherlock noted softly, musing sadly. “Not like they did for John…”

     Missy shook her head, drawing in a trembling breath. “No… I doubt it crossed anyone’s mind that I might need looking after…”

     “Hm….”

     Silence persisted for another minute before Missy looked at Sherlock, who sat deep in thought.

     “Sherlock,” she said carefully, catching his attention. “I-I-If you survived…. do you think…. maybe...”

     His brow creased as a feeling of sympathy and resolution hit him like an unpleasant aroma. “No, Missy. He shot himself through the head. I saw it with my own eyes. He’s not coming back.”

     She turned away from him, gnawing her bottom lip as she was prone to do. Sherlock noticed the blood that began to drip and fetched her a clean washcloth from the apartment closet, struggling to navigate across the cluttered floor. She took it from him shakily, pressing it to her lip, staring into space as a new wave of grief consumed her.

     Another hour or so passed in silence between the two of them; Missy had calmed again. She began to talk; she hadn’t talked to anyone on a personal level in nearly three years.

     “Sorry about the couch,” she began with a half laugh that was full of anguish. “Jim had slept here… before he disappeared…. a-a-and I just-…. if he were to come back… I-I wanted things to be all set for him…”

     “Understandable.” Sherlock hated to see the brilliant woman he had come to admire reduced to such shambles because of Jim Moriarty, or more accurately, the absence of him. He had been a drug to her, a thrill, and now he was gone, and she was left in withdrawal, unable to escape. Sherlock understood all too well what that was like.

     She gazed around the apartment, finally seeing it for what a dump it was. “I suppose I should do something about this mess….”

     She got up and began to gather up all the papers and articles. Sherlock watched, noting the topics. Data on psychopathic behavior, articles on Moriarty, papers and letters pleading for grant money. He stood and began to help her clean; he wanted to see her life put back together again without the undue influence of a psychopathic criminal consultant.

     The two of them had just finished straightening up the studio apartment when their focus was disrupted by the chiming of Sherlock’s phone. He gave it a glance; it was John. Sherlock sighed a bit, looking up to catch Missy staring at him. He frowned as he observed countless indications of her desperation and desolation. He plucked a sticky note from her desk, scribbling down his phone number and sticking it to the wall in plain sight.

     “If you need _anything_ ,” Sherlock said with assurance. “Anything at all, please, _please_ call me. I’m here for you Missy. You’re not alone. I promise.”

     He was cut off as the woman tackled him in a hug, face buried in his scarf. Caught off guard, Sherlock could only look at her with worry and sympathy.

     She pulled away slowly, realizing she was behaving irrationally, childishly. She looked at Sherlock again, his serious face, his messy hair, and was overcome with the desire to tell him everything, absolutely everything. But then she caught the stare of a face on a newspaper, peeking out from the trashcan. It was the face of Jim Moriarty. Almost instantly, the desire retreated, chased away by fear, fear that was grounded in trust, affection, love, and the utter danger she would be in if her secret was revealed.

     “Thank you, Sherlock….” She pulled her eyes away from the face in the garbage, looking again at the consulting detective with whom she had gotten back onto her feet. “I’ll call if I need you, I promise.”  
            Sherlock looked at her with intrigue. Oh, she was hiding something, alright; that much was clear as day. But Sherlock couldn’t begin to imagine what was worth hiding despite the fact that Moriarty—for whom she was undoubtedly keeping the secret for—was most definitely dead. Perhaps it didn’t matter. Sherlock had dismantled all of Moriarty’s web of contacts and connection; Missy was in no danger, and she would never be again. Satisfied with this conclusion, Sherlock showed himself to the door, pushing aside his curiosity over the secrets Missy was keeping.

     “I’m glad _you’re_ not dead, Sherlock,” Missy called quietly. “One brilliant man dead is far more than enough for me.”

     Sherlock flashed a polite smile, receiving one in return, and shutting the door behind him. If she had to pick, would Missy have wanted things to turn out as they did? With Sherlock alive and Moriarty cold in the ground? No, she would have done absolutely everything to save the both of them, even if it cost her own life. Sherlock was worried all over again, glancing back at the apartment building as he climbed into a cab. _What was the secret she was keeping?_


	4. Chapter 4

After “His Last Vow”

 

     Sherlock exited the private jet, already on his phone. John was trailing after him, and Mary behind John.

     “Sherlock, what’s the plan? Who are you calling?”

     Sherlock got in the back of the Watson’s car, listening anxiously to the ringing on the other end of the line. He looked at John as he climbed into the driver’s seat, and Mary in the passenger’s.

     “John, we need to see Missy. I have no idea how she’ll take to this _display_ and I sure as hell don’t want to be answered by her corpse!”

     Sherlock stared out the window as the car drove off, mind racing. She could very well be thrilled at the prospect of her beloved drug returning to her, or—and this being the more likely option—she could be spooked out of her wits at the thought of her safety being compromised. After all, she had been forced to shut down the research she had been doing for Moriarty when her funding disappeared; who knows what other deals and obligations she neglected or ignored after Moriarty’s death. Or supposed death, as he may in fact be alive. Sherlock practically shuddered to even consider the option.

     The ringing stopped and went to voicemail. Sherlock hung up and tried again, his concern growing by the minute.

     Finally, a connection clicked just before the final ring. “Hello…? Sherlock..?”

     He let out a huge sigh of relief to hear her voice. “Missy! Are you alright? I’m assuming you saw the…. message.”

     He could hear her draw in a shaky breath on the other end of the call. No doubt she was shaking like a leaf. Sherlock checked the clock in the car. She would still be in shock at this point; it simply hadn’t been long enough for her to respond to the Moriarty message with real actions. Sherlock didn’t want her to get to that point while she was alone.

     “Stay on the line, Missy,” Sherlock commanded, trying to keep the dread out of his voice. “We’re on our way over, John, Marry and me.

     Marry looked back at him, alarmed herself. “Oh God, Sherlock! Has anything happened!?”

     He shook his head, hearing Missy’s voice reply through the phone, more steady than before.

     “I’m okay Sherlock,” she said, choking up a bit but voice even. “I’m okay.”

     The drive to Missy’s apartment was agonizingly slow for everyone. The tense silence was only occasionally broken by Sherlock’s inquiry of _Are you okay_ , and Missy’s reply of _I’m okay_. Everyone wanted to be sure she meant what she said. John and Mary had spent many lovely times having lunch with Missy, who had gotten back to her old, cheery, witty self with a little help from Sherlock and the mysterious grant money from a certain Mycroft Holmes. Missy had even been at their wedding, if not only for a brief time—she was swamped with work, as it were. Sherlock had visited her a few times after he originally helped her back on her feet. Once, the two of them even had tea with Mycroft; it was Mycroft’s request to do so, of course, before departing a large sum of money to an unknown woman who had the favor of his little brother. In the end, Mycroft was rather pleased with Missy; she was, in fact, charming, well mannered, and far from dull and boring. Sherlock didn’t doubt his brother had invited Missy to further outings to reaffirm his money was being well spent.

     As the car pulled up to the apartment building, the three of them couldn’t get up to Missy’s studio apartment fast enough. As expected, the door was unlocked. Sherlock was the first to enter, half expecting to find a crime scene with the poor neuroscientist as the victim. He could see the blood splatted on the wall from where the bullet ripped through her skull, the blood soaking the carpet; then he blinked, and it all disappeared. Missy was sitting on her couch, hands folded and knuckles white, eyes staring at her laptop that sat in front of her on the coffee table.

     Something was wrong. Sherlock could just tell. Something was off about Missy; something was terribly, terribly wrong—he just didn’t know what it was. John and Mary were oblivious, immediately sitting themselves at either side of Missy, doing their best to comfort her. But Missy needed no comforting; she had been in a shock, and now she was numb. Sherlock knew something had happened between those two states, _something_ so crucial it had changed Missy in way words couldn’t begin to describe. Sherlock stood and stared, unable to imagine what had transpired.

     “Do you really think he’s back?” Mary looked at John and at Sherlock. “Is it really possible?”

     Missy finally spoke up with a resolute sigh. “Today would be the day to do it, if it _were_ possible.”  
            “What? Why?” John was frowning considerably. “Why today, of all days? What makes today so special?”

     Sherlock frowned as much as John when he noticed the smile creep onto the face of the neuroscientist. It disturbed him more than he knew was possible.

     “Why today, Missy?” His voice was firm, but he couldn’t conceal just how unsettled he was.

     She looked up at him, tears spilling out of her eyes, face twisted to express a sad, grotesque version of joy. “It’s his birthday.”

     “Who’s?” Mary asked, confused and suddenly just as disturbed as Sherlock. “Moriarty’s?”

     Slowly, very slowly, Missy shook her head. She stood up, looking at Sherlock. He instantly understood, looking at John and his wife.

     “John, Mary, stay here,” he said as calmly as possible, becoming increasingly intrigued by the clue Missy had just given him. “We won’t be gone long.”  
            “What?!” John jumped to his feet. “No, Sherlock, tell us what’s going on. Now, Sherlock.”

     “I don’t quite know, John,” Sherlock said slowly, eyeing up Missy and her deranged expression. “But I’m going to figure it out.”

     Missy left with Sherlock. She hailed a cab and asked to be taken a remote location near the harbor. The drive commenced in silence between her and Sherlock. The silence continued until the two of them stepped out of the cab, when Missy piped up.

     “We’re headed to my lab.”

     Sherlock’s brow creased. “Your laboratory is at University College London.”

     She shook her head in the same, slow fashion as before. “Not _my_ lab.”

     It was difficult to get to their destination. Missy led Sherlock into the sewer system, where they spent near an hour navigating through tunnels both in use and perfectly dry until they came to a door similar to what might be found on a submarine. The metal door was sealed shut by the wheel that rendered the pathway airtight. Missy strenuously turned the wheel to the tune of hissing pressure release. The huge metal thing slowly opened, revealing another door of steal with a fingerprint scanner. Missy had to scan three of her fingers before the scanner was appeased and the lock came undone. She looked at Sherlock again, as if rethinking what she was doing, and then proceeded through the door. Sherlock was more than intrigued; that look she gave him, it was exactly like the one she had given him the night he helped her get back on her feet, the look of wanting to reveal a secret. Except now, she was willing to divulge said secret.

     What Sherlock saw when he entered the lab both appalled him, fascinated him, and caused him to become ill with terror. What he saw was the first thing he considered might be going on, but the last thing he thought would be true. He wasn’t sure how to begin to describe what he was seeing, but lucky for him, Missy had the perfect words.

     “Sherlock,” she said carefully, shakily. “I’d like you to meet James Moriarty Junior, and wish him a happy birthday.”

     Sherlock was speechless. In front of him was a glass wall, enclosing a sizable, carpeted area that housed a toddler. This toddler was wearing something strapped to his head, wires and sensors, forming a net-like cap. The toddler was sitting in front of a TV screen, watching the contents displayed to him. Every now and again, a light would blink from the sensors on his head, and the TV would display new content. From what Sherlock could tell, the toddler was completely oblivious that there was anyone outside the glass wall; Sherlock wasn’t sure he could even see them if he tried.

     “It’s…. it’s wonderful, isn’t it?” These were the hesitant words of Missy, who sat observing the child as Sherlock did. “It measures the development patterns of his brain and the television changes content to stimulate the parts that are in need of further growth. It does everything. Language skills, cognitive skills, even creativity…”

     Sherlock pried his eyes away from the toddler’s enclosure, looking with interest at the woman who engineered it all. She was giving off mixed signals: she was happy, ecstatic, proud, but more than that she was worried, afraid; she was worried her work would be seen as monstrous, and worse yet, she was afraid she had done something truly horrific.

     “I’m assuming _this_ is what Moriarty was funding through you. Correct?”

     Missy nodded; Sherlock continued.

     “And that’s Moriarty’s child? He is the father, but who is the mother?”

     Missy hesitated. “Th-That would be me…”

     Sherlock eyed her curiously. “You? How? You were never pregnant.”

     Her eyes glowed with pride again, pride in her work.

     “That’s the beauty of it, Sherlock,” she began, motioning to the rest of the room, a mess of lab equipment, computers, machines, and in the center of it all, what appeared to be a cryogenic storage tube. “Artificial gestation, outside-the-body pregnancy. It’s not hard, just immoral, unethical. Words of cowards, really! No lab would allow me to do such work, not until Jim came along. He wanted this perfected; he wanted a protégé, or maybe an army of protégés—I’ll admit, his ultimate goal with all this was always a bit fuzzy, at least for me. But I did it, Sherlock!”

     “I see that.” Sherlock was taking a closer look at all the equipment, having to admit to himself that he was at least a little impressed.

     “Post-birth development was a bit… trickier, to perfect. It took months of studying young mice to get all the data we needed. Really, little James here is sort of our test-run, to see if I really _did_ cover all the bases development-wise. But it seems I did, Sherlock! James Moriarty Junior is beautifully developed! He’s bright, he’s sociable, he’s coordinated…”

     “But is he psychopathic?” Sherlock cut in.

     “What..?”

     Sherlock turned away from the equipment and stared her down. “I asked if he’s psychopathic, Missy. Moriarty wanted to create himself a protégé, a copy of himself, but not a perfect copy. No. This child needed to be impressionable, manipulable, a means for Moriarty to stretch out his hand and have it do his bidding. But above all else, this child needed to be just as bright and insane as he is in order to do _his_ work. He needed him to be psychopathic.

     “Now ask yourself, Missy, why you? Why of all the thousands of young, bright neuroscientists in the world did Moriarty choose you? We have to assume your willingness to abandon moral principles played a role in that decision, but let’s be honest, _everyone_ will abandoned their moral principles for the right price. No, there was more to his decision, Missy. Much more. Not only did he need a neuroscientist, he needed a mother; a mother who would provide half of the genes to his puppet child, his _protégé_. Do you think Moriarty would leave fifty percent of his puppet’s genome—his traits and dispositions—up to chance? Absolutely not! He chose _you_ , Missy, because _you_ are more like him than you care to acknowledge. Tell me Missy, do you have a family history of psychosis?”

     “Sherlock!”

     “I’ve observed in you several instances of sociopathic behavior. _Mild_ sociopathic behavior, mind you, but enough to suggest a predisposition. With you, there was a high probability of you and Moriarty’s child developing into either a full sociopath or an intermediate psychopath. Which one is it, Missy? Which one is our dearest experiment, James Moriarty Junior?”

     There was a long, anxious pause.

     “Sociopath.” Missy sighed in defeat. “It’s not fully manifested, but he’s showing every sign of being sociopathic…”

     “Ah.”

     The two of them fell into tense silence, interrupted only by the rhythmic beeping of the computers monitoring the toddler’s vital signs. A tone went off, causing Missy to check the screen and make a few adjustments.

     “He’s experiencing stress,” she informed Sherlock, who was eyeing the screen.

     “What for?”

     “Stress is vital to a child’s development. To be stressed and to find ways to overcome it is key. Spoilt children, they’ve never felt stress, never had the opportunity to overcome it. It’s why they misbehave, because they crave stress but don’t understand that’s what they want. Sadly enough, most of the parents of these children would never dream of stressing their kids, thus tending to their every need while the child is having a tantrum.”

     “What’s causing his stress now?” Sherlock couldn’t see anything that would.

     “We’re moving.”

     Sherlock looked at her in confusion, prompting her to elaborate.

     “You see, this room James lives in, it’s all holographic, a projection of his mind. His whole life thus far had been one big dream, one big projection of his thoughts and imagination. I have quite a bit of sway over that world, causing him to learn, to experience life anatomically and mentally without physically going through such things. Control of heart rate, blood sugar, mental stimulation… all of it creates a life in which he lives without leaving his room. Because of this, however, he has very little true perception of time; things have been sped up, slowed down, mostly for developmental perfection, of course. But time itself will take some time getting used to.

     “At the moment, I’ve prompted him to experience the stress of moving away from his ‘hometown’. He has friends, Sherlock. Friends that he’s thought up and manifested as real people. To him, he has a home, a neighborhood, a life… though none of its actually real. And as you can understand, we can’t just pull him out of his fake world and tell him it was all fake. How traumatic would that be! Instead, he’s moving away from it all. He’ll be introduced to the real world assuming it’s simply the place he’s moved to.”

     “So does he know you? Know you’re his mother?”

     “Oh yeah, he knows some of us. By varying degrees, of course. He knows me quite well; hears my voice, sees my face, feels affection towards me. It was all programed that way. He knows you too, Sherlock, though not much about you. He’s just heard all of your cases on John’s blog, and he has some semblance of a face to put to your name. So don’t be alarmed if he takes to you rather fast. He knows John, too, but only through references to you. He doesn’t know anyone else. Yet.”

     “Moriarty?”

     “He knows he has a father and he’ll know his father when he sees him. That’s it.”

     Sherlock sniffed in admiration, impressed. “And how are we to explain all this away? The fact that you suddenly have a toddler? Of course, I’m certain you have a plan. This is all rather planned out, isn’t it?”

     “I do,” Missy replied. “We say we went to an orphanage, to adopt. We say that I took you along because I feared for my child’s safety—a child I had been months working hard to receive custody of—with Moriarty possibly returned, and I desired for you to have partial guardianship of the child. Which you do, Sherlock. You’re James’ guardian; you and me both.”

     “What? Me!?” He wrinkled his nose in disgruntled unpleasantness.

     “Yes, you! Especially with the whole ‘James is a sociopath’ thing! He’s gonna need quite a bit of guidance by a high functioning sociopath of your caliber, Sherlock.”

     Sherlock rolled his eyes and tsked unhappily. Missy continued, ignoring him.

     “Clearly, John and Mary—and everyone for that matter—are going to be curious as to how James knows about you and John and all your cases. It’s simple: he’s been read John’s blog and he’s a huge fan!”

     “What about _my_ website?” Sherlock remarked bitterly.

     “Really Sherlock!? It’s going to be awful suspicious if a three year old can name 243 types of tobacco ash, don’t you think? Or remark on the tensile strength of different animal furs?”

     Sherlock sniffed in indifference.

     “Look, we have an hour before the memory of moving is complete and solidified in James’ mind. We can work out the details. I just want to make sure you’re committed to this, Sherlock.”

     “Why should I be?” Sherlock remained rather bitter.

     “Because, Sherlock,” Missy breathed patiently. “Whether a little boy becomes the next consulting detective or consulting criminal is entirely in your hands. And while you could go on with your life completely ignoring that simple fact, I would rather you take part in that ultimate decision.”

     Sherlock fell silent, understanding for once the weight of the circumstance he had involved himself in the moment he followed Missy from her apartment. He stared through the glass at the little boy who sat in his own imaginary universe, currently going through a stressful move away from his world of carefully controlled make-believe to the real world of life and death, crime and justice, good and evil, right and wrong, and Sherlock had the power to determine where the boy would end up among these antitheses. Whether that be at the extremes, or somewhere in the middle, was still undecided.

     Sherlock spoke the words he had said many times before, realizing that now they carried a weight that he would bear for a lifetime.

     “I’ll take the case.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Well I must admit, little brother: I never pictured you being the parenting type.”

     Mycroft sipped his tea as he sat with Sherlock in his flat on Baker Street. The two of them were watching as little James explored every nook and cranny of the hazardous place. Mrs. Hudson entered with lunch, tsking as she caught James examining a skull, taking it from him.

     “Sherlock! This is _no_ place for a child to be playing! Oh dear!”

     Sherlock eyed the child. James looked back at him. He had grey eyes that were big and curious, messy hair that was dirty blonde and would one day darken to the color of his father’s. He had chubby cheeks like most three-year-olds, and was sporting his everyday expression of somber intelligence. He was wearing a textured grey shirt that was rather large on him, the sleeves nearly swallowing his hands, and a highly worn-out pair of blue jeans that had been patched up more times than one could count. As was his preference, James was going barefoot, the jeans nearly swallowing his feet as well.

     “Do sit down, James,” Sherlock said as he nodded to the empty desk chair.

     Silently, James climbed into the chair and sat, kicking his feet.

     Sherlock sipped his tea and eyed his brother. “It just so happens that I’m not, Mycroft. Which is why you’re here. You practically raised me.”  
            Mycroft rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. “Clearly I didn’t do a good enough job.”

     Sherlock lowered his voice. “He’s like us, Mycroft. That’s why I’m involved with him. That, and his father is hardly the role-model type.”

     “And who would that be?”

It was Sherlock’s turn to be exasperated. “Oh please, brother dear, don’t pretend like you can’t guess. There aren’t that many sociopaths running around, and it certainly isn’t you or me.”

     Mycroft frowned, eyeing his brother seriously. “Surely that’s not possible.”

     Sherlock laughed, leaning back in his chair comfortably. “Oh, it’s quite possible. Especially when you take into consideration that our friend the neuroscientist was heavily involved.”

“How lovely,” Mycroft muttered.

“Ah, but no need to worry,” Sherlock smiled thinly. “I’m here to make sure things turn out alright.”

Mycroft thanked Mrs. Hudson as she refilled his tea cup. “I do hope you keep yourself from getting too attached, Sherlock. Even if things do work themselves out, the boy will never be appreciative of you. Just look at you and me: after all I did for you, you despise me so. Naturally, I don’t mind, brother dear. But you’re more _sensitive_ than I.”

Sherlock glared at his brother, calling to the child. “James, do you appreciate everything I’ve done for you?”

James’ face lit up with a smile, and he was simply unable to sit still, voice thick with his slurring, toddler accent. “Oh yes, mista Sherlock! You play games wif me, you give me books, you let me see all your cool pictures, you solve puzzles wif me, buy me biscuits when mummy says ‘No,’ teach me fings, spend time wif me when I don’t sleep-…”

“That’s enough James,” Sherlock cut in getting up and handing the boy a tin of cookies, flashing him a smile. “Thank you.”

James beamed, taking the tin and munching on the cookies, understanding he had to keep them out of sight of Mrs. Hudson whenever she entered the room.

Mycroft was silent for a little while. “You say he’s like us?”

Sherlock had taken a cookie for himself. “He is.”

“You realize then, Sherlock, that if things do _not_ turn out how you want, James here will be like Moriarty and Magnussen combined?”

Sherlock refused to listen. “He’ll be fine, Mycroft.”

“But if he _isn’t-_ ”

“He _will_ be, Mycroft!! Don’t suggest such _nonsense_ again!” Sherlock’s voice dripped with malice.

Mycroft eyed his brother steadily before sighing and standing. “I best be off. Business and such.” He turned to James. “It was a pleasure to meet you, young master James.”

James looked up from his cookies, immediately setting them down and jumping from his chair, bowing a bit. “Da pleasure is mine, mista Mycroff.”

“Mycrof- _t_ ,” he corrected, shaking his head before taking his leave.

“Don’t mind him James,” Sherlock assured. “He’s just jealous I like you better than him.”

James found this to be incredibly amusing and couldn’t stop laughing.

____________________________

     A month later, Missy was trying incredibly hard to get James out of bed. She had to be at work in an hour; Sherlock had promised to watch James while she was away at a conference that would last through the weekend. However, today was different than every other day. James was refusing to get out of bed.

     “Come on James,” Missy called to him from the kitchen where she was pouring him a bowl of cereal. “You can’t see Mr. Sherlock until you get dressed and eat your breakfast.”

     Silence. James had pulled the covers over his head and was ignoring his mother completely, feigning sleep. Missy sighed in annoyance, gulping her coffee and checking the clock. She was going to be late. Just then, she heard the door open and saw Sherlock enter.

     “Hello Missy, shouldn’t you be leaving?”

     “Yeah, I should be, but _someone_ won’t get ready!”

     Sherlock eyed the lump under the covers of the bed. “I see. Don’t worry Missy. You go, I’ll take care of this.”

     “Sherlock, it’s alright, I’ll-”

     “Really Missy,” Sherlock assured. “I can handle this. Now go.”  
            Missy sighed in defeat, pulling on her shoes, grabbing her breakfast and heading for the door.

     “Goodbye James! Be good for Mr. Sherlock, you hear!” And with that, she was gone.

     For a while, Sherlock did nothing; he simply paced the room and observed casually the changes that had been made since he had last spent much time in the studio apartment. The lump under the covers did not budge. Sherlock was looking at a drawing James had made with crayons when he spoke up.

     “What seems to be the problem, James?”

     The toddler’s voice came out muffled from the covers. “Everyone has a mummy and a da, right?”

     Sherlock was silent for a moment.

     “That’s correct,” he answered as he made his way to the bed and sat himself down at the foot.

     “Then where’s my da, mista Sherlock…?”

     “Well, that matter is currently up for debate. He’s either dead, or he’s miraculously _not_ dead.”

     ”Mummy says she doesn’t want me to meet him. Why’s that, mista Sherlock?”

     “She doesn’t suppose he’d be a very good daddy for you, James. And frankly, I don’t either.”

     He poked his head out from beneath the covers and looked at his mentor. His hair was messy and there were dark circles around his eyes—clearly from the insomnia that regularly plagued him—which made James take on quite a resemblance to his father, Jim Moriarty. Sherlock stared, finding himself spooked by the similarity. James spoke quietly again.

     “Sometimes, I see him in my dreams. It’s dark, he’s singing, smiling, reaching for me, and I smile and reach for him; but then I can’t breathe, and I can’t move. I try to yell at him, tell him to help me, but he keeps smiling, keeps singing. He hears me, I know it, but he doesn’t do anything. And then I wake up screaming. And then I don’t want to sleep anymore.”

     Sherlock reached for the boy and he crawled over to be in his arms. Holding him, Sherlock rested his chin on the boys head, nestled in his messy blonde hair. Sherlock listened to his breathing, felt his pulse rushing through his little body.

     “It’s just a dream,” he assured James quietly. “Nothing more.”

     Slowly, James started to get ready for the day. He changed into his favorite textured grey shirt and worn out jeans, ate his cereal and brushed his teeth; he conveniently neglected to brush his hair or put on shoes. When he was all finished, Sherlock turned to him with a smile, an idea having taken form in his mind.

     “I know something fun we can do! Come on, let’s go see Ms. Molly Hooper!”

____________________________

Molly Hooper was busy at work when she was interrupted quite suddenly by a familiar—yet unfamiliarly cheery—voice.

“Hello Molly! Mind if we examine a few bodies?”

She shook her head, confused. “Sherlock, what are you doing here? A-And with a baby…?”

Sherlock was smiling, carrying James on his shoulders. James was grinning from ear to ear, gripping tightly to Sherlock’s curly hair to keep himself from falling. Sherlock winced constantly at the tugging on his hair.

“We’re here to examine some bodies,” Sherlock explained. “It’s a game, see. Jamie here is going to try and figure out the cause of death! Doesn’t that sound fun?”

“Sherlock that’s terrible!” Molly chided, mortified that a toddler should even be near so many dead bodies.

Sherlock pulled a smug face that suggested Molly was being ridiculous.

“Oh come on! It’ll be _fun_ , won’t it James?”

“Oh, right-o, mista Sherlock! A smashing fun time!” James was clearly ecstatic.

“Go one then, Molly!” Sherlock said as he carefully lowered the boy from his shoulders who was still clinging to his hair. “Start us off with something easy!”

     Reluctantly, Molly took the two boys to the morgue, pulling out a body and unzipping it, eyeing the child uneasily. However, little James was unaffected by the corpse. Instead, his brow was scrunched with intense concentration as he searched for the cause of death. He, however, as too short to see very well. Sherlock grabbed a nearby trashcan and turned it upside-down for James to stand on. Once he clambered onto his make-shift stool, James spotted the cause of death in a matter of seconds.

     “There!” He exclaimed proudly. “A bullet wound! Probably broke a few ribs and collapsed the right lung. Loads of bleeding inside and out, I’ll bet!”

     “Very good!” Sherlock beamed. “But what was the cause of death? Asphyxiation or blood loss?”

     James reached for the body, but Sherlock stayed his hand. “You need gloves to do that, Jamie.”

     Sherlock grabbed him a pair and helped James slip them on. They were the smallest size available, and yet they were still twice the size of James’ hands. James pushed on the body, straining to turn it over.

     “Mista Sherlock… a little help, please…”  
            Sherlock and Molly were able to turn the body over. James scrunched his brow again. There was an exit wound from the bullet.

     “Blood loss,” James proclaimed confidently, eyeing Molly in hopes of confirmation.

     “That’s right,” she said, both amused and aghast by the talents of the three-year-old.

     “He’s a mini you, isn’t he Sherlock?” she asked with a big smile spreading on her face.  There was nothing quite as adorable as seeing Sherlock play mates with a toddler; it was like having two children around instead of one.

     Sherlock scoffed a bit, hand reaching unconsciously to ruffled James’ hair, but staying itself upon realizing to do so would be unsanitary.

     “To be more accurate, he’s more of a mini Moriarty,” Sherlock stated offhandedly, getting cut off by Molly’s shock.

     “What!? Why would you say such a horrible thing?!”

     James looked up at the two of them innocently. “He’s right, Miss Molly. That’s my da.”

     Molly was speechless. Sherlock dismissed the matter with a wave of the hand.

     “Oh never mind the details, Molly,” he said casually. “He might look like his dad—looks a bit like his mother, also— but he’s more like me in intellect and personality. That’s why I’m his mentor. And guardian, too, technically, but I think mentor is more than sufficient.”

     “Can we do another one?” James asked, nodding to the dead body he had diagnosed. “A bit harder, too, please?”

     Molly looked at Sherlock, still trying to stomach the fact that this charming little boy hanging around with Sherlock was in fact the only son of Sherlock’s psychotic nemesis. However, the idea didn’t seem to faze the consulting detective in the slightest. Instead, he nodded at Molly to have her pull out a different body.

     With each new body came a more discrete cause of death, and as the game grew more elaborate, James grew increasingly concentrated and observant. Sherlock needed to prompt him less; James was spewing out acute observations left and right and deciphering what they all told him. Heart condition, dementia, cancer, there wasn’t a single aliment that went past James unnoticed; even the ones he didn’t know words for he still observed. It took Molly a little bit of time, but soon she, too, was caught up in their game. She tried to find the most puzzling deaths to stump James. In fact, she was overjoyed by the look on Sherlock’s face each time James made his observations; it was the look of a father proud of his son, of a teacher marveling at his student, of a man finding solace and comradery in someone who he realizes is very much like himself. So often did Sherlock look down upon people and complain of their dullness, it was quite the new experience for Molly to see him look upon someone with such high regard, even if that someone was the son of a psychopath.

     Hours passed with the three of them in the morgue. Molly had lost count of the number of bodies that had been pulled out and had their cause of death correctly identified.  The three of them were leaning over the latest body, which James had been mulling over for the past quarter of an hour. It was a real tough one; even Sherlock had taken a decent chunk of time to figure it out himself. James, however, was most definitely stumped.

     “So you’ve already noted the gnawed figure nails, correct?”

     James nodded absently. “Nervous habit. Along with the pinching and twirling of hair on the back of the head.”

     “Good, good,” Sherlock remarked quietly. “And the scars?”

     “Small things, on the fingers and hands mostly. Some elsewhere. Long healed over.”

     “Right. But you’re missing one very crucial piece. It’s staring you in the face.”

     James looked up at Sherlock, curiously surprised. “It is..?”

     Sherlock nodded encouragingly. The wheels were spinning overtime in James’ head, but they were spitting out no new observations, no results. He turned back to the body and stared a while longer.

     Just then, John Watson burst into the morgue.

     “Sherlock, what on earth do you think you’re doing!?”

     Sherlock ignored him. “Quiet John. We’re in the middle of a game.”

     “A game!?” John was frazzled and indignant. “Sherlock, looking at dead bodies is _not_ a game, and it is _not_ something to be doing with a three-year-old!”

     “They’ve been figuring out the cause of death,” Molly added. “James is quite good at it.”

     “I don’t care,” said John, throwing up his hands in exasperation. “Sherlock, you haven’t been answering your phone and it is _past_ time to be getting some lunch! The poor boy is probably starving!”

     James was, in fact, rather hungry, which was part of the reason he couldn’t think straight. He wouldn’t leave for lunch, though; not until he had solved the puzzle whose answer was eluding him.

     Sherlock straightened up, pulling off his gloves and setting them aside.

     “You won’t get it, James,” he said, placing a hand on his shoulder which drooped beneath the added weight. “I’m fairly certain at this point that you don’t even know this to be a cause of death.”

     James looked up at him, eyes full of frustrating bafflement. “What is it, then?”

     A slight smile flashed on his face. “Old age.”

     James frowned. “Old age..? Someone can die of that?”

     Sherlock laughed a little. “Everyone dies of that, if they don’t die of something interesting first.”

     “Huh…” James got off his make-shift stool in a daze, putting his oversized gloves with Sherlock’s.

     John motioned him over and picked him up with a strenuous sigh. “Come on, mate, how do fish and chips sound?”

     James leaned his head on John’s shoulder, sighing. “Can mista Sherlock come too, mista John?”

     John looked at Sherlock, frustrated with his lack of parenting skills but, all the same, not having the heart to separate the inseparable duo that was James Moriarty Junior and Sherlock Holmes.

     “Oh course he can, buddy,” John said after a long pause. “I couldn’t imagine having lunch without him, could you?”

____________________________

     The three of them went to a small café and sat at a table outside, as to enjoy the lovely spring weather; Molly had been invited to join them, but she politely declined, claiming she had tons of work to get done. They all got fish and chips, and James sat wolfing down both his food and stealing some of John’s. At first, Sherlock sat in a trance, not eating or talking, but after an inquiry by James as to whether or not he liked his food, Sherlock joined the world of the living.

John swatted playfully at James’ hand as he once again stole another chip. John shook his head, chuckling a bit as he looked at Sherlock, who had watched the criminal act take place.

“Can you believe this kid?” John chuckled in a tone of mock anger. “Who does he think he is, stealing my chips left and right?”

James giggled, having the audacity to steal another one from under John’s nose, barely escaping John’s reflexes. This set off even more giggling. Sherlock couldn’t help but smile, eating more of his food as John and James continued to fool around. As he ate, Sherlock noticed someone out of the corner of his eye, someone who looked too eerily familiar to ignore. Sherlock lifted his head, staring the figure down. And for a moment—a very brief moment—Sherlock was absolutely certain he was looking at the smug face of Jim Moriarty from a distance. And then people passed between them, and then he was gone, mingled into the crowd of people on London’s streets.

Whether this man was Moriarty or not, Sherlock was still alarmed.

“James,” he said, trying to keep his voice level and casual. “What do you say we go and get a treat? Some ice cream, perhaps?”

“Yes please, mista Sherlock!” James said excitedly, though there was no hiding the worried suspicion in his eyes; he was learning to read Sherlock like a book, and he knew something was wrong.

John, however, was ignorant as ever. “What? Now? But Sherlock, he hasn’t finished his lunch! And neither have you, for that matter!”

“Oh, we’ve both had enough, I’m sure.” Sherlock stood, eyes darting around as he tried to catch another glimpse of who he thought to be Moriarty. He pulled a few bills from his pocket and set them on the table with John. “Here. That should cover our expenses. Come on James!”

James jumped down from his chair and bolted to Sherlock’s side, taking a hold of his hand and following him down the street. Sherlock’s pace was too quick and his stride too long; James could hardly keep up at a full sprint. Once they were out of John’s view, Sherlock hailed a cab, got in with James, and asked to be taken to an ice cream shop on the other side of town.

James piped up in the silence. “Everything okay, mista Sherlock…?”

Sherlock looked at the small boy. He was clearly worried; not for himself, but for him, for his mentor, his friend, his father-figure. Sherlock ruffled his hair, knowing just how much small acts of affection meant to him. James was immediately consoled without the need for any diffusing lies.

Sherlock tried to get a hold of Missy via texting and calling, but got no response. _She’s just working, she’s busy_ , Sherlock told himself. _No need to panic. Everything’s fine_. The cab stopped, causing Sherlock to look up and notice their surroundings. They were not at the ice cream shop. In fact, Sherlock had no clue where they were. They appeared to be in some sort of abandoned warehouse. Before Sherlock could react, the cab driver was pointing a gun at him.

“Get out of the cab,” he said, face impassive.

James looked at Sherlock, unafraid; he was a sociopath, after all. Sherlock nodded at him, and James fumbled with the door, leaning all his weight against it to open it up. He clambered out of the cab, and Sherlock followed closely behind him, taking in the scene. The warehouse was empty; no one was waiting for them. There were no cameras, as far as Sherlock could spot, no speakers, nothing.

There was a squeal and the smell of burning rubber as the cab left the warehouse in a hurry. The garage door came down and shut them in the moment the cab cleared the doorway. Sherlock looked at James, worried. James was unfazed, calm, attentive. To him, this was just another game, a distraction from a frenzy of boredom. Normally, Sherlock would feel the same way, if it wasn’t for the danger posed on the life of James Moriarty Junior, most likely by James Moriarty himself.

“Stay close to me, James,” Sherlock instructed, taking the boy’s hand in his. “This is most likely a dangerous situation. Stay observant.”

The two began to poke around the warehouse, both of them scanning for anything that may be telling or helpful. But there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. The warehouse was entirely empty apart from the two souls wandering around. Sherlock refused to let his guard down, however. Why else would a cab drive them here, force them out of the cab at gunpoint, and then drive off leaving them shut in? Something was a foot; something bad.

An hour crept past unbearably slow. The warehouse was absolutely void. In fact, it was so incredibly empty Sherlock found himself becoming somewhat manic trying to find _something_ interesting, a single thing out of the ordinary. There were three floors. Each floor had the same layout. Each floor was as empty and immaculate as the rest. At first, Sherlock thought the meticulousness with which everything had been kept identical was a clue to who or what they were dealing with. But the idea got him nowhere.

Sherlock barely realized just how out of hand his intense boredom was getting until he saw the same sensation reflected in James; for James, too, was bored out of his senses. He was wandering aimlessly, long ago lost any small sense of fear installed in him and had since become incessantly explorative. Sherlock tried to refocus himself, tried to shake the monotony. And that’s when the voice called out.

“Did you miss me, Sherlock? I’m awful curious to find out.”

Sherlock felt his blood run cold. He turned around slowly, finding Jim Moriarty standing where there hadn’t been anything a few moments ago.

“Impossible…” Sherlock breathed, frowning intensely at the sight of his presumed-to-be-dead foe.

Moriarty stood causally, hands in his pockets, wearing the same suit he had worn the day he had shot himself in the head. _He shot himself through the head_ , Sherlock’s mind was screaming. _This can’t be him! He can’t be alive!_

“You didn’t think you were the only one who could fake their death, did you?” A smug smile was hovering on his face.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, confusion overwhelming him after the long, agonizing hour of ordinary that had put his mind off guard.

“You’re not real,” Sherlock stated, believing the words that were backed with logic.

The smile that had been hovering now stuck itself to Moriarty’s face, he looked down, laughing to himself, before eyeing Sherlock again.

“Not real? Am I just some _ghost_ of your imagination?” He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “Did you _really_ miss me that much, Sherlock? That my memory would manifest itself in the real world for you to toy around with?”

Sherlock knew something was off, something was very, very wrong; he just couldn’t deduce as to what that something was. He didn’t have long to wonder, as Moriarty made it very clear when he spoke again.

“Maybe you should be asking a certain James Moriarty Junior whether or not I’m real.”

Sherlock felt as if he had just been hit with a train, panic engulfing him so entirely he thought for sure he’d suffocate. _James, where was he_? Sherlock whirled around, looked everywhere. _He was just here! He was just here beside me!_ But no longer. There was only Sherlock and his nemesis.

“Where is he!?” Sherlock barked angrily, storming over to Moriarty, real or otherwise. “What have you done with him!?”

Sherlock grabbed the psychopath by his suit, shaking him violently. He _was_ real! He was real and would cry for mercy if anything had or would happened to James! Sherlock was not himself; he couldn’t think straight, he was so blinded by his anger and his panic. It took him a full minute to realize that while he shook Moriarty like a ragdoll, Moriarty had his eyes fixed on something behind Sherlock. Slowly, Sherlock turned around, keeping one had gripping tightly to Moriarty’s suit. When he saw what awaited behind him, Sherlock felt his blood turn to ice.

“Mista Sherlock…”

It was James. He was standing there, face somber as always but tear-stained, eyes red from crying and hair matted on one side from where blood had been spilling out, clearly from a blow to the head. He stood still but was shaking, shaking because beside him stood a man, and this man was holding a gun to his head.

All of a sudden, Sherlock saw something he had come to hold very dear and close to his heart, something that within seconds could be ripped out of his life and never return. It had only been a few months that James had been a part of Sherlock’s life, but he couldn’t begin to imagine a day without him anymore. Sherlock held his arms up, showing he was unarmed. Sherlock immediately recognized the man with the gun; he was Sebastian Moran.

“Calm down, James,” Sherlock tried to be soothing. “Everything’s going to be alright, okay?”

James was silent, unable to breathe evenly.

“Okay James?” Sherlock repeated, resisting the urge to run to him and hold him in his arms like during the nights of nightmares and bad dreams. Instead, he had to talk him through it. Talk him through it as if over the phone, like the nights his insomnia overwhelms him and he’s panicked at three in the morning.

“O-O-O-Okay…” James answered, gulping, staring into Sherlock’s eyes to keep himself steady. He was dizzy from fear and mortified that he might fall over and be shot.

The two of them would have been fine; they would have leaned on each other and kept each other level through the ordeal. But sadly, that’s not what transpired. Instead, Moriarty cut in.

“No need to play puppy to this _fake_ anymore, James my boy!”

Sherlock wanted to turn and clock Moriarty directly in the face, knock him out cold. But the gun at James’ head was under his command. Sherlock wouldn’t dare risk James’ life for a little sweet revenge. Moriarty’s laugh rung in Sherlock’s ears.

“Daddy’s home!”

First, a wave of pain, bright and surprising. And then darkness, cold overwhelming unconsciousness. Sherlock had been knocked out cold, a blow to the back of the head.

In the darkness, an echo.  A diminishing scream. A scream of a boy. A gunshot. Silence.


	6. Part II

Slowly, very slowly, Sherlock began to come to. His head was foggy, he couldn’t think straight, he could barely remember what had happened, where he was. Suddenly, it all came back to him in a flash: Moriarty, James, Moran, the gun, the pain, the scream, the gunshot. Then everything went black.

Sherlock jolted awake, sitting up, breathing heavily. He was in a chair, arms and legs strapped in. He pulled against the restraints, trying desperately to get free. He barely had any strength, everything was hazy. Slowly, he became aware of his surroundings. An IV was stuck in his arm, pumping in a cold liquid from a bag beside the chair. Whatever it was, Sherlock couldn’t think because of it. Everything was muddled and sluggish; the only thing clear to him was his present danger. Looking around, Sherlock could faintly make out that he was in a cement room, and the room was awfully damp and cold; probably due to it being somewhere underground. In the small room was only Sherlock, the chair he was strapped to, the IV bag dripping liquid into his arm, and a monitor beeping to the tune of his pulse. There were no windows, only a single industrial door across from Sherlock.

He had no idea how long he had been unconscious. The fact that he was hooked up to an IV suggested that it could’ve been days or even weeks, as he could have been hooked up to some sort of life support. James, where was James? Sherlock had no way of knowing if the poor boy was even alive.

An hour moved by as slow as possible, made slower by whatever was in the IV. It was further clouding Sherlock’s mind and drugging him up. Try as he might, there was nothing Sherlock could do to remove the IV and clear his head.

Suddenly, the door screeched against the floor, slowly swinging open and smashing into the wall. All these noises were unbearably loud to Sherlock in his intoxicated state, forcing him to flinch and shut his eyes in an attempt to block out the sounds. A silence fell once again, and then was broken by the sound of footsteps. A figure approached Sherlock, whose vision had blurred drastically. Sherlock tried to question the figure, but he found himself lacking control over his mouth. Everything was numb.

This figure began unstrapping cords and the like from Sherlock and shutting off the machines that were beeping steadily.  He then got behind Sherlock and kicked something with his feet. Suddenly, Sherlock was mobile. Wheelchair; the word presented itself to Sherlock, who took his time connecting the dots. The figure pushed Sherlock through the doorway into a hall. Sherlock was immediately blinded by industrial-grade lighting that stabbed at his eyes and filled his ears with the humming of a thousand bees. To be honest, Sherlock had no idea what direction he was moving. It could be forwards, backwards; he could be floating for all he could tell. Any ordinary man would have succumbed to the powerful drugs, forgotten themselves in the strange euphoria, but not Sherlock; Sherlock kept himself focused on a single, swaying thought that kept him grounded: find James.

After what seemed like an age, Sherlock found himself stationary again. The room to which he had been taken slowly took shape, resembling a dressing room one might mind backstage in a theater. There were rows of dressers with mirrors lined with cheap incandescent bulbs glowing with a yellowish tint. In one corner of the room, several racks of costumes. In the other corner, a single dresser pulled aside from the others with a director’s chair positioned in front of it, and a shorter, similar chair beside the first. What would have been a simple puzzle for him to solve was made into a Mount Everest of an enigma to Sherlock in his current drugged state. The bits of information floated about in the haze of his mind, not bothering to relate themselves or make any sense. This utter confusion was expressed outwardly on Sherlock’s face by a simple, baffled frown.

Sherlock was rolled in front of one of the dressers. The mirror allowed Sherlock to catch a glimpse of the figure’s face who was pushing him about. It was a man who seemed oddly familiar. Sherlock looked at him and thought he felt some sort of anger or frustration, but he wasn’t really sure. The man was only there a second before walking away, shutting the door to the strange room as he left. But before he did, he yanked the IV from Sherlock’s arm, bandaged the sight of injection, and took it with him.

Another age rolled past, filled with the pain of coming off a high. Without the constant supply of drugs, Sherlock’s mind was starting to defog; it was slow, painfully slow, but it was happening. He tried once more to break free of his bonds, but the excessive struggling drained all the energy right out of him, made him feel nauseous even. Sherlock slowly began to think again. His excessive weakness hinted to the fact that he had most likely been unconscious for at least a few days. He had a hunch that he hadn’t left the abandoned warehouse, but rather was taken to some subterranean level he hadn’t discovered. With his ability to think returning, so did the memories of what happened before he blacked out. The blow. The pain. The scream. The gunshot. Then it clicked: the man who had wheeled Sherlock around, who had taken his IV, he was Sebastian Moran.

A door opened quite suddenly across the room. It was a door Sherlock had not noticed before over by the costumes and isolated dresser. Sherlock was hidden from view in the corner he was in; evidentially, that meant Sherlock couldn’t see who was entering, either. But he could hear them talking, and he recognized one voice. Moriarty.

“It’s better, it is, it’s just not perfect.” No one was replying to him, but he continued. “You just need to practice on the real thing, that’s all.”

A faint voice began to speak, too faint for Sherlock to make out. The two figures had made their way from the costume racks to the isolated dresser in the corner.

“No, no, baby, you’re a natural!” The level of casualness and lack of malice in Moriarty’s voice was foreign to Sherlock. His mind raced—or rather stumbled—trying to think of who he would talk to this way. He didn’t have the time. Moriarty came straight over to Sherlock, expecting him to be there.

“Sherlock!” He said, leaning down and patting his cheek in a demeaning fashion. “How nice of you to pop by!”

He got behind Sherlock and rolled him to the door by the costumes, chatting him up as he whisked him quickly through the dressing room.

“It’s tragic really, all this,” he pushed him through the door and onto a stage. “Who would’ve thought you’d go and get yourself involved in drugs again? And while looking after a small child. How irresponsible!”

His tone struck a chord with Sherlock; it was the same tone with which he had spoken on the roof of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital about Sherlock being proven a fake. The tone was mildly sarcastic, ironically innocent, laced with danger.

“What are-… what are you planning..?” Sherlock could barely conjure up the words, out of breath quite suddenly. He was looking around the empty stage and the empty audience, baffled, the bright lights giving him a headache.

Moriarty positioned Sherlock just off center stage, removing the straps holding down his arms and legs. “We’re playing a game Sherlock. Who can outwit the ordinary folk? So far it’s Moriarty one, Sherlock _zero_! They all thought you were a fake, a joke, and that I was nothing more than an innocent bystander. I wonder who will get which role this time around, Sherlock. What do you think?”

He walked away without an answer, heading back into the dressing room. Sherlock worked tirelessly to stand on his own two feet. He held himself up with the arms of the wheelchair, working his way around until he was supporting himself on the handles from which one pushes the chair. It seemed like another hour crept by with only Sherlock relearning to stand. He was coming off the drugs rather fast, and it was throwing his body into shock that shook him from head to toe. He looked at himself, realizing for the first time that he wasn’t wearing the same clothes that he recalled blacking out in. These clothes were baggier, more beat up and torn and stained. He wasn’t quite sure whose they were. Despite all this, Sherlock was standing on his own, Sherlock was thinking again, Sherlock was very nearly himself.

And that’s when a door opened from across the stage. Sherlock squinted into the darkness, looking as Moriarty emerged, approaching him. Sherlock eyed him suspiciously, ready for just about anything. Moriarty simply grabbed the wheelchair and threw it off the stage, wincing for his own entertainment as it crashed into a dark corner of the auditorium. Sherlock was still watching him. Moriarty turned to Sherlock, a smug smile on his expressionless face.

“Check your pockets, Sherlock.”

Sherlock reached a hand into the pocket of the sweatpants he was wearing, pulling something out. Upon further observation, it appeared to be a bag of marijuana. He checked the pockets of the sweatshirt: cocaine. Sherlock suddenly understood, looking at his nemesis with loathing.

“You drugged me up,” he growled. “Then planted all this on me to look like an addict!”

Moriarty put on a face of playful guilt, shrugging his shoulder. “You caught me!”

“But why?” Sherlock was shaking his head, still a bit foggy. “What do you gain?”

“What can I say?” A sinister smile appeared. “I like to see ordinary people try and make their own deductions. It’s so cute. They’re always dead wrong.”

Out of the shadows of the far stage emerged a figure. A small figure in a small suit, blonde hair slicked and combed back, grey eyes accented by dark circles of exhaustion, aiming a gun between Sherlock’s eyes with the steadiness of two tiny hands.

“James….?” Sherlock was at a loss for words, both relieved and mortified all at once.

Moriarty barked at his son. “Tell me what happened to Sherlock Holmes.”

“He indulged in drugs and left me to fend for my own,” replied the steady, dead voice of the little boy.

“And what did you do?”

“I followed him because I was helpless.”

“And then?”

“And then he beat me.”

“And?”

“He gave me his gun.”

“And?”

“He made me help him rob people for more drugs.”

“Who did?”

“Sherlock Holmes.” James cocked the gun and raised it to eye level, ready to shoot.

Sherlock was absolutely furious, breaking free of the haze of drugs. “What did you do to him?!”

He grabbed Moriarty and slammed him against the wall off-stage, hands gripping tightly to his throat as Moriarty’s hands sought desperately to keep them off.

“I didn’t do anything!” He laughed hoarsely. “He’s my son. I simply let him recognize it.”

Sherlock look at James, dropping Moriarty and taking a few steps closer to the boy boldly.

“James!”

James was visibly shaken at the sound of his name ringing out so clearly, by a voice awfully familiar. He held firmly to the gun, hands beginning to shake.

“James! Snap out of it!”

Panic was evident in his little face, eyes widening in absolute horror. The gun was anything but steady as sobs began to rack through his little body. The wailing of police sirens grew audible, and gradually louder and closer.

“James! It’s me! Mister Sherlock!” He was desperate, beginning to feel panicked himself. “James! Look at me James! Look at me! Snap out of it! _Snap out of it_!!”

Bang; the gun fired. Sherlock felt the whole world slow down. He never felt the bullet hit him, because there had been no bullet. The blank cartridge set the room ringing with the ricochets of the shot. James was absolutely horror-stricken, collapsing to the ground, head spinning and body feeling cold, tears immediately pouring from his eyes. The police burst in through the audience doors, and were swarming the stage within seconds. Moriarty had vanished. Sherlock was paraded out, looking back to see two policemen checking on James. Sherlock tried to explain to them what had happened, but his words were incoherent. Shock and the lingering effects of drugs kept him silenced. The blinding light of day set his nerves on fire as he was led outside and ducked into the back of a police car. There was absolutely no sign of James when the car pulled away from the warehouse and drove off.


	7. Chapter 7

     James woke up in a hospital bed that was much too big for him. He was exhausted, worn down, and barely remembered what had happened. They had been missing a week, he and Sherlock, before the police found them. It was a week Sherlock might have been unconscious for, but it was one that felt like a lifetime to a fully conscious James.

     He remembered the events leading up to the horrible week. The bodies with Molly, the fish and chips, the cab ride, the warehouse. He remembered wandering around the empty place when someone hit him over the head, knocking him out cold. He remembered being roused roughly and marched back into the main room at gunpoint. He was frightened, sure, but the look of absolute terror that Sherlock had on his face scared James more than anything. He knew how to read Sherlock like a book, and he was reading that he was going to die.

     He remembered Sherlock getting smashed in the back of the head by Jim Moriarty. James had screamed, began to run to Sherlock. Moran had grabbed him by the shirt, yanked him back, gun pointed at his head. There was a gunshot: Jim Moriarty shot at Moran’s hand, causing him to drop the gun in pain. James was mortified by the cries of pain given off by the grown man. Before he knew what was happening, Jim Moriarty had scooped him up and held him protectively. James needed the security; he hugged onto his father and buried his face in his chest, wanting the entire mortifying scene to disappear.

     James heard the words of his father echoing hauntingly in his head, words that were repeated over and over during the course of the week, beginning in that first moment of fear:

     “You look like someone scraped you off the street, kiddo. Don’t you ever clean up?”

     Their father-son week focused very heavily on the matters of grooming. Moriarty spent an excessive amount of time cleaning James up, styling his hair, dressing him all fancy, teaching James to carry himself with confidence and maturity. The rest of the week was all about triggering the psychosis Moriarty was certain James had buried in his mind. He tried to flush the insanity out using trauma, and then trying to have James release it himself by committing violent and insane acts, all masterfully directed by Moriarty.

     James hoped people would understand. He had to do what he was told, he had to try and be crazy. His father made it very clear the people who would get seriously hurt if he didn’t: his mother, Sherlock, John Watson, Mary Watson, Molly Hooper, Mycroft…. just to name a few of those threatened.

     His other threat was not to breathe a word about the events of their father-son week.

What shook James up the worst was not all the wrong that had been committed against him. It was that they found it. He had been psychotic. It was inside of him, a part of him. Once it was released, it was uncontrollable. Sherlock had been the one to pull James out of it. And now James knew; he knew he was crazy, he knew it could still happen again, and he lived in terror not knowing if and when it would.

     When the doctors, investigators, policemen, and John Watson all asked him to divulge what had happened, James stayed perfectly silent. When he was asked if Sherlock had bought drugs, James simply shook his head and feared for his life.

     Sherlock came to see James after a few days, finally managing to slip in despite all the accusations of abuse, both of drugs and of James. The sight of the little boy made Sherlock unbearably sad. His shaggy hair had been practically sheared off, leaving only a highly cropped, conservative version of what it once was. This was due to the wound on is head from where he was hit, all healed over now and leaving no permanent damage other than a scar. His cheeks that were once jollily chubby had been thinned down almost flat to his face. His eyes were just as sunken and dark as they had been when Sherlock first saw him standing on the stage with the gun. Sherlock hesitated in the doorway, not knowing how James would take to his being there.

     James stared at him. He, too, did not like the Sherlock that he saw. This Sherlock looked tired, thin, unkempt. This Sherlock was the one who had spent the past few days in withdrawal after a week of continuous, unwilling drugging. This was the Sherlock who had to deal constantly with the doubt and scandal that surrounded the whole affair. This was not the Sherlock who could calm James down over the phone when panic seized him at four in the morning; this was not the Sherlock who could explain just about anything and make the world seem a bit less chaotic; this wasn’t the Sherlock who was certain he was doing the right thing by mentoring James.

Sherlock walked over and sat in a big, stuffy arm chair at James’ bedside. “Hey…”

“Hey…” James’ voice was hoarse and very quiet after so many days of disuse. The screaming didn’t help it either. He had done a lot of screaming.

“How are you feeling, James?” Sherlock’s voice was awfully melancholy and carried an undertone of formality that was enough to make James want to cry.

“Fine…” It was all he could do to choke back his tears.

There was a long silence between them; neither of them knew how to approach the other in their current state of affairs. Sherlock had never seen James be anything but full of life. James had never seen Sherlock lack confidence as much as he did now.

“James,” Sherlock began carefully, full of anguish. “If I caused you any harm, any at all, I am sincerely sorry. It will never happen again.”

James shook his head, stretching the great distance between them to hug Sherlock around the neck, starting to sob. “No mista Sherlock…. never… not once….!”

     Sherlock held him, hugging him tightly. James cried; he cried and cried because he had been brave for everyone else, for all his friends, and they didn’t have the presence of mind to be brave enough to stand behind Sherlock and the truth. No one believed Moriarty was alive. No one believed Sherlock had been knocked senseless and drugged for an entire week. No one believed James had suffered through the sort of mental abuse only a psychotic father could dish out.

Because it was so much easier to believe Sherlock had fallen back on old habits and pulled James along for the ride. They took the easy way out.

Sherlock felt absolutely gut-wrenchingly awful. Because no matter how many times James and Missy could tell him nothing was his fault, he could never believe them. Something just _had_ to be his fault, and he _wanted_ to own up and take full responsibility for everything. Missy had tried to reason with him, assure him over and over that Jim Moriarty was too unpredictable for Sherlock to have foreseen what would happen and avoid it.  Missy was the only one who believed Sherlock’s story whole-heartedly. Mycroft and John believed there was a great deal of truth to his story, but they refused to believe Moriarty was alive or involved.

And here James was, caught up in the middle of it all. Abused by the voices nagging to know if he was abused, belittled by the people who denied him credibility when his answers weren’t to their liking, suffocated by press foaming at the mouth to hear that a three-year-old had been harmed by the famed Sherlock Holmes. And James had taken every last bullet, every last bitter pill, and he had kept Sherlock’s name as clean and dirt-free as was in his power to do so. Sherlock was eaten alive with guilt knowing this. He was responsible for James; why couldn’t he be responsible for what had happened to the poor kid?

Sherlock held tight to James, never wanting to let go of him again, but knowing all too well just how short their time was together. Missy’s words echoed in his head:

_“We’ll be going away for a while Sherlock, going into hiding, of sorts. Mycroft has it all arranged. We’ll be away for… I don’t know, a few months, maybe a year or two…. But then we’ll be back. I promise. Just a little time away from the press, a little time out in the countryside somewhere. Just a breather.”_

But Sherlock knew his brother far better than Missy did. He was sending them away for good. Prying apart his little brother from the things that could cause him harm, like always. Shielding Sherlock from the big bad world, but always from the wrong things, at the wrong time, for the wrong reasons. James would be leaving, and he wouldn’t be seeing him ever again. The thought was more than Sherlock could bear.

“Mista Sherlock….?” James was still clinging to him.

“Yes James…?”

“You were right….”

“About what..?”

“He’s not a very good Da after all….”

Sherlock hugged him tighter, finally understanding Mycroft’s protective reflex, feeling the same way towards James that his brother felt towards him. If only Sherlock could separate James from the past… he would do it in a heartbeat. Anything to stop the pain. Anything to put a smile on his little face.


	8. Chapter 8

Three years. It had been three years since Sherlock had last seen young James Moriarty Junior or Missy Alistar. He spent the first two years tirelessly trying to track down Moriarty, following up on every last lead and travelling all around in an attempt to catch the phantom. It was no use; after two years, all leads had gone dry, suspicious activity came to a halt. Cases were slow to come in, and when Sherlock did find one, John was barely able to stick around and help out. The baby, he would say. Mary needs me, he would say. John and Mary had their child, a beautiful healthy baby girl who they named Kate Eloise, not long after James and Missy left for who-knows-where. Sherlock tried to understand, but he was frustrated. He was alone. For the past year, Sherlock was caught up on a turmoil of utter boredom, unable to find enough cases to entertain himself.

Three years. A letter came in the mail, a letter coming from Liechtenstein, a tiny little country caught between Switzerland and Austria. It was the oddest thing that had happened in months. Sherlock immediately ripped open the letter, tossing himself in his armchair, reading it.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I know it has been a long time. Three years, in fact. I’m writing to you now because I need your help again, and because I want you to understand the nature of my seemingly rash actions. James has been very introverted since we left. He has become very astute, bright, intelligent, but he is not very keen when it comes to being social. We live out in the countryside; it is beautiful, but it is lonely. At first, James would try and chat with whomever we met, but it soon became very apparent to him that he was thought of as peculiar, patronized because he is just a child; no one understands just how much of a genius he truly is. Because of this, he stopped trying to talk with people; he talks to me, and he talks to an open room, but that’s about it._

_When James grew old enough for school, he refused to go. Instead, he sits for hours in his room or on the porch or somewhere strange and reads books. He has quite the collection now. Philosophy books, chemistry books, algebra books, history books, poetry books, classics of literature. He’s even started to get into a few calculus and nuclear physics ones; these ones prove difficult for him to understand, though I’m sure he’ll be an expert in a year or two. All the standardized tests have been sent to us in the mail, and he has taken them all and passed with flying colors. He’s taken them in seven different languages as well, just for fun. He won’t ever have to set foot in a primary school; he’s tested out of all the grades. I’m sure he’ll test out of secondary school in a few years. But for now, he spends his time cooped up at home, always reading._

_I worry about him, Sherlock. Most of them time he’s his old self, unkempt, curious and cheery, wearing his ill-fitting clothes and running about without shoes. Some days he’s less cheery than others, oftentimes spending hours at the piano, composing and brooding. But some days, I find him awake early in the morning, meticulously grooming himself, dressing nicely. These are the days that I worry about him; he’s dark, he’s brooding, he locks himself in his room and doesn’t come out, often reading books about murder and crime, or dark poetry. There’s little I can do to help him, since I am working nonstop. I bought him a dog to keep him company, be therapeutic. He named it Socrates, after one of his favorite philosophers, “The Founder of Western Philosophy”; he calls him Socks for short sometimes, but he usually employs the full name. He’s does better with the company, with someone who will listen and never criticize, but he still had his low days. He needs guidance, the sort of guidance that springs from experience and not so much speculation. I can only provide the latter._

_Sherlock, James is very much plagued by whatever transpired between him and his father. Every day he writes down what happened, crumples it into a ball, and throws it away. One day I caught him burning his trashcan full of the crumpled confessions. I didn’t stop him, but I made him take it outside. He watched them burn, but he evidently didn’t feel any better. Whatever happened, he needs someone to pull him out of the past and give him a reason to be active in the present. I’ve tried. There’s nothing I can do._

_I wanted to explain to you the reason why we left in the first place. It had nothing at all to do with you, Sherlock, and I hope you don’t blame yourself. It’s all very simple: if Moriarty were to approach me and ask for James, I would have to give him up. If I refused, Jim would most certainly dispatch of me and take James anyway. The solution was also simple: go into hiding so that Moriarty couldn’t possibly find us. Three years have gone by without incident, and I feel James and I are in the clear._

_James needs you now more than ever, Sherlock. All I can ask is that you would let him come and live with you. I promise I’ll sponsor him and cover all expenses. I will be remaining behind; Mycroft has given me a steady paying job as a data consultant for labs across Europe, and I can do it all from my desk here in the countryside. James has very few possessions he would be bringing with him, and thus wouldn’t be much of a burden at all. These include his collection of books, his limited wardrobe, his journals, and his dog Socrates._

_Please write me back with your decision as soon as possible._

_With the Highest Regard,_

_Missy Alistar_

 Sherlock reread the letter, contemplated it, and reread it once more. He hadn’t been expecting to hear for Marissa Alistar, not now, not ever. Carefully, he set the letter aside, pressing his fingertips together and bringing them to rest against his lips, deep in thought. He wasn’t sure what his answer would be. As much as he marveled at the idea of once again having a flatmate, he wasn’t jumping at the opportunity. He wasn’t sure that having James around would be best. For either of them, really.

His session of thought was interrupted as Mycroft entered, followed by Anderson and a few others.

“Hello, brother mine,” smiled Mycroft, gesturing with his umbrella at the room. Anderson and the others began to straighten up the chaotic flat.

Sherlock glared, though secretly pleased with the break from monotony. “What is the meaning of this, Mycroft? I don’t have time for your games.”  
            Mycroft gave him a look. “Oh, don’t you? I thought you were bored out of your mind, fresh out of cases to solve.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because I have found you a case. It happens to be one you worked on a while back, but never finished.”

Mycroft tossed Sherlock a manila folder. Sherlock opened it to find countless pictures of James Moriarty Junior from various dates, mixed in with standardized test reports and other such information on the boy. Sherlock eyed his brother curiously. Mycroft was looking a bit smugger than usual.

“The Case of the Psychopath’s Son, if I recall correctly.” He dropped the act for a more personal, serious tone. “We’ve been keeping a close eye on him, Sherlock. If anything were to have happened, we would have prevented it.”

“Why tell me this now?”

“Well, I figured you may want to reacquaint yourself with the boy—his habits, hobbies, interests—before we go and pick him up at the airport in an hour.”

Sherlock was silenced. Mycroft flashed a smile.

“I hope you don’t mind, little brother, but I took the liberty of responding to Ms. Alistar’s letter for you. Young master James is on one of our private jets as we speak, soon to arrive in London.”

“Mycroft-…”

Mycroft let out an impatient sigh. “As much as you may want to continue pouting about what transpired between you two and Moriarty, you can’t ignore the fact that James needs you again. Imagine growing up and not having me around to answer all your questions. You wouldn’t have survived long, really.”

Sherlock was silent for a minute, thoughts sorting themselves in his mind. “When are we leaving?”

“As soon as you like. Mr. Anderson and his colleagues will stay behind and try to make this place a bit more… habitable.”

Sherlock stood, putting on his scarf and his coat.

“Try not to ruin everything, Anderson,” he remarked as he left the apartment.

“Of course not, Sherlock!” Anderson called after him.

Outside the flat, Mycroft’s car was waiting to take him and Sherlock to the private airport. Sherlock climbed in the back, and Mycroft causally took the passenger’s seat. The ride to the airport transpired without a word shared between the brothers. Mycroft received a call and chatted his way out of a compromising situation, par the norm. Sherlock went through the file on James, pausing for several minutes at a time to stare at more recent photographs of the boy. He was six now, verging on seven, but in many of the photos he had a face serious enough to belong to a young, troubled teenager. His hair had darkened considerably, giving him an even greater similarity to his namesake. Sherlock began to dread the confrontation that was soon to occur.

The car pulled up on the runway and Sherlock exited the vehicle, waiting patiently for the plane to arrive, hands tucked away in the pockets of his coat. Mycroft joined him, standing in the same fashion. They were both thinking quite a bit over the unfortunate boy who was similar enough to them to be their sibling. They were both concerned over what sort of an adult a boy like James grows up to be. A boy like him dos not grow up to be anything less than a great hero or a great burden.

The jet appeared in the sky and drew closer, eventually touching down on the runway and coming to a halt, cruising over to be in front of Sherlock and Mycroft. The door opened and lowered, functioning as stairs. Several attendants carried luggage out, though there was only a handful of suitcases to begin with. From behind the attendants burst forth the huge, lumbering dog who practically tumbled down the stairs and immediately began sniffing around the plane.

Sherlock sported a look of alarm and loathing. “So this is the infamous Socrates. Missy conveniently failed to mention he was an English Mastiff.”

But Sherlock had little time to complain. Next out of the plane was a young boy, brown hair un-brushed and whacky atop his head, wearing slacks and a grey cardigan atop a checkered dress shirt. He had earbuds in his ears that were plugged into an old fashion Walkman which he had clipped to his waistband. It was evident he was listening to something as he gazed around at his first view of England in three years, jaw working on a piece of bubblegum that had long since lost its flavor. As his gaze fell on Sherlock and Mycroft, a huge grin appearing on his face. He walked down the stairs of the plane and made his way over to them, removing the earbuds as he did. The hulking mastiff Socrates spotted him and followed at his heels.

Sherlock held out his hand as he was confronted by the boy who had been a toddler the last Sherlock had seen of him.

“A pleasure to see you again, James.”

The boy beamed cheerily. “It’s been yonks, mista Sherlock! It’s so good to see you again!”

James refused Sherlock’s handshake and instead hugged him affectionately. Sherlock was taken aback, expecting for there to be some tension between the two of them after how things had been left.

“But-,” Sherlock began.

James refused to pull away, quoting from one of his philosophy books. “’There are two things a person should never be angry at, what they can help, and what they cannot,’” he said.

“Aristotle,” remarked Sherlock, recalling the author of the quote.

James finally pulled back to look Sherlock in the eye, though quite a distance up. “You couldn’t help what happened then, mista Sherlock. You should know that. And you should accept how things turned out, move on.”

“And have you moved on?” Sherlock inquired, recalling Missy’s letter.

James frowned, looking away. “I’ve tried. But I feel so stuck, so trapped. And I’ve finally realized why: I just can’t move on without you. You mean the world to me, mista Sherlock. I’ve been clinging to the past because that’s where you were, in my past. But now, I can have a present with you, and hopefully a future too. I can move on. With you.”

Sherlock saw the raw, unbridled hope in the young boy’s eyes, saw the youth and all its splendor return to his face, and Sherlock couldn’t doubt his words for a second.

“We’ll move on together then,” Sherlock said with a faint smile. “How does that sound, Jamie?”

All it once, it was if they had never been apart. James hugged Sherlock again, and this time, Sherlock hugged him back. This time, Sherlock wasn’t going to let him go so easily. This time, he was going to keep him away from harm. This time, he was going to do everything right.


	9. Chapter 9

The three of them—plus Socrates the mastiff—rode back to Baker Street. Mycroft posed a few questions at James, trying to be friendly.

“How did you like Liechtenstein, master James?”

“Oh it was the dog’s bullock, mista Mycroft sah! Real spiffy, that place!”

Despite living in a German-speaking country for three years, James clung to his British accent; it was easy to do when the only people he spoke to were his mother and himself. He was overly found of drawing out his hard “r” sounds like long “a” sounds, as he had always been. Mycroft was not particular impressed with his use of slang, however, or the childishness of his pronunciation.

“I figured you might. It’s a beautiful landscape. Excellent for reflection, don’t you think?”

“’Look deep into nature, and then you will understand everything better.’ That’s Einstein, right there. Brilliant man, he was, don’t you think, mista Mycroft sah?”

Mycroft pulled a face. “Do you really fill up your head full of quotes? That’s a waste, master James.”

“’The mind is not a vessel to be filled but a fire to be kindled.’ That one’s Plutarch, mista Mycroft sah. I bet Plutarch was more brilliant than us all, yeah?”

     Sherlock grinned to see his brother bested in a joust of words by a six-year-old with a head for philosophy. Mycroft, though bitter, couldn’t possibly think less of young James. In very subtle ways, James was quite a bit more like Mycroft in his art of dealing with confrontation than he was like Sherlock; subtle, yet artistic, fluent, meticulous. He was very much like both of them, really, deep down inside. And quite a bit like Moriarty, as well. The three likenesses made for quite the cocktail of vast intellect in limbo with inordinate madness.

     The ride passed by without much further conversation. Sherlock was not very happy about the huge slobbering dog that lay at he and James’ feet, drooling excessively on his shoes. Sherlock could hardly imagine how he would keep a dog of his size and clumsiness among all his science equipment and delicate experiments. He supposed he would find out soon enough, whether he liked it or not. James continued to listen to whatever was on his Walkman, still chewing on his bubblegum.

     Sherlock leaned over. “May I ask what are you listening to, Jamie?”

     James pulled out an earbud and offered it to Sherlock. He listened. It was a lecture on Eastern versus Western philosophy as given by some Oxford professor. Satisfied, Sherlock returned the earbud and stared out his window in thoughtful silence.

     Once, while they had yet to enter into a city which could lend interesting views out the window, James pulled out his earbuds and piped up.

     “Say, has Mr. John and Mrs. Mary had their baby yet?”

     Mycroft nodded, not bothering to look back. “Yes they did. Kate Eloise Watson.”

     “What is she, something like three-years-old now? It that right?”

     “Indeed it is, master James.”

     “Huh.” He returned to silence for a short while. “Is she very interesting, this Kate Eloise? Or is she rather ordinary?”

     “I’d say she’s a fairly standard child. Though I’m sure the Watson’s would disagree. Every parent _loves_ to believe their children to be special.”

     “Does my mum think I’m special, mista Mycroft sah?”

     “Yes James, but _many_ people think you’re special. Sherlock and I included. Which should indicate there may be some truth to it.”

     “Oh. Thank you, mista Mycroft sah.”

     “Anytime, master James.”

They arrived back at Baker Street uneventfully. Anderson and his colleagues were waiting for them in the café next door to 221B. They helped take James’ luggage into Sherlock’s flat. Socrates the mastiff barreled disgracefully out of the car, sniffing about the sidewalk. James exited the car, pulling out his earbuds and stashing them in his pocket.

“Here Socks! Here boy!”

The lumbering dog immediately trotted to his side. The dog was tall enough when standing for James to rest his arm on him as comfortably as one would an armrest. If the dog stood on its hind legs, it would most certainly tower over even Sherlock. The dog stayed at James’ heels as James fetched his backpack from the trunk and slung it over his shoulder. Sherlock followed the boy and his dog as the two of them went inside 221B Baker Street. Immediately, Mrs. Hudson’s cry of alarm was heard.

“Goodness me! That dog is _huge_!”

“Cheerio, Mrs. Hudson!” James gave her an affectionate hug, flashing a charming smile. “You don’t mind old Socks, do you? He won’t be much of a bother, I promise!”

Sherlock walked in, catching Mrs. Hudson’s look of exasperation and James’ sheepish smile. The dog had already gone up the stairs, and crashing and thudding was heard from above. Sherlock went up the stairs to see what sort of damage had been done. When he did, he frowned intensely. There was no real damage, but the dog had taken up residence in Sherlock’s armchair, his front paws slung over the arm, his back paws long enough to touch the floor as they hung off the chair, head resting on the arm, panting contentedly.

“No no, that’s _my_ chair.” Sherlock said, walking over to the dog. “Get down.”

Socrates did quite a bit of ungraceful shifting, ending up sitting up in the chair, able to lick Sherlock’s face he was so tall. He did so, causing Sherlock to twitch.

“I said _down_ ,” he muttered darkly.

Still panting, Socrates practically fell out of the chair and heaved himself down into a laying position on the floor. Sherlock took a large step over the mastiff and sat in his chair, sitting with folded hands and fingertips at his lips. He couldn’t quite position his feet, however; they couldn’t squeeze between the dog and the chair, and it was too far a distance to put them beyond the dog. So Sherlock used the dog as a footstool. Neither Sherlock nor the mastiff seemed to mind.

Anderson came up with a pair of suitcases, struggling with them.

“Geez these are heavy! What does he have in these, bricks?”

“Books,” Sherlock corrected.

“Right,” Anderson panted as he reached the floor, turning to head up the next flight of stairs. “Should’ve known.”

Next up was Mrs. Hudson, all flustered.

“Sherlock, you never told me you were getting a dog!”

“That’s because I _didn’t_ , Mrs. Hudson.” He said without breaking his trance. “James got a dog, and I got a James.”

Mrs. Hudson fussed about fixing the crooked furniture and knocked-over décor that had been met by the hulking body and heavy wagging tail of the mastiff. Once this was done, she gave Sherlock a sideways glance, starting to smile knowingly.

“You two are awful comfortable, aren’t you?”

“Hm…?” Sherlock had barely noticed he was utilizing the dog as a footrest, and the dog paid his feet no heed.

Mrs. Hudson giggled a bit, forgetting her distaste for the big canine. “I’ll put on some tea, then.”

James came up with Mycroft, who he had evidentially been chatting with. Mycroft was chuckling under his breath, and James was smiling modestly. Sherlock deduced the conversation had clearly been over himself. He didn’t bother to pry for details.

“You’re room is on the next floor,” Sherlock nodded at the stairs. “You know it, John’s old room.”

James did, and he headed there to unpack. Socrates got up stiffly, Sherlock’s feet going with him. Sherlock was rather unhappy as he was tossed back in his chair, ruining his meditation. The mastiff didn’t notice the waves of hostility being sent his way, following after James and going up the flight of stairs.

Mycroft smirked. “Not quite the same as Redbeard, little brother. But still.”

Sherlock sniffed, unamused, righting himself in his chair.

There was a moment of silence between the brothers, the only sound that of Mrs. Hudson clanking dishes in the kitchen and James and his dog thumping around on the floor above.

Mycroft sighed contentedly. “It’s good to have him back, isn’t it?”

“I supposed it is,” Sherlock mused.

“I was worried about him, being all alone. The two of us were never alone growing up. Not entirely.”

Sherlock eyed his brother. “ _You_ were alone until I showed up.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Yes, well, I’m plenty of company for myself.”

Sherlock laughed a bit. “Keep telling yourself that, Mycroft.”

Mycroft frowned in mild annoyance.

“I best be off then,” he said, turning to head down the stairs.

“He admires you immensely, brother,” Sherlock looked up. “He wouldn’t mind if you paid a visit more often. Even if it were just for a minute.”

Mycroft flashed another brief smile. “Don’t worry, brother mine. I’m not leaving the mentoring entirely up to you.”

Just then, James came barreling down the stairs, Socrates nearly on top of him. James was sporting the deerstalker cap that had been abandoned on the upper floor. The hat was much too large for James, wobbling about at askew angles with every movement of the boy’s head.

“Look, mista Sherlock!” grinned James, completely out of breath as he reached the bottom of the stairs, his dog nearly falling into him.  “I’m you!”

“Take that confounded thing off and burn it, will you James?” Sherlock was less than amused.

“But it’s your case-solving hat! I’m a detective, too!” James straighten the cap as best he could, just to have it fall over his eyes the moment he let go. “So I get a Sherlock hat, too!”

Mycroft took the hat off of the ecstatic James and handed it to him calmly. “Try not to annoy our dearest Sherlock to the point of getting yourself killed, master James.”

James smiled, turning and placing the hat on Socrates big head, whirling back around to face Mycroft innocently. “Yes sah, mista Mycroft sah.”

Mycroft ruffled his hair as Sherlock often did.

“Good lad.” He turned and walked down the stairs. “Good evening, Sherlock!”

“Evening, Mycroft.” Sherlock had gotten up from his chair and picked up his violin, playing.

James crept quietly over to John’s old armchair, curling up in it to listen to Sherlock play. His dog followed him and lay beside the chair, head resting on crossed paws. The soothing melody of the violin filled the flat as the sun drooped low in the sky, enveloping the room in rays of orange-tinted light. Mrs. Hudson served tea and started to make dinner. James dozed, comforted by the warmth of the sunlight, the singing of the violin, and the company of old friends.

Three years. James hadn’t felt at home in three long years. They were three long years that Sherlock hadn’t felt at peace.

Three years. Two halves had been existing on their own, incomplete.

Three years, and those halves finally met once more.

Three years, and the halves were once again whole.

Three years, and James finally had his mentor; Sherlock finally had his protégé.

Three years, and they once again had each other.

The world could’ve ended that very moment and they would have thought their lives well spent. But as it were, the world did not end right then and there. For the world had many dark days to cast over Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty Junior. A twilight was falling on them, and would soon find them in the depths of night; neither of them were guaranteed to see the sun rise at the end of it all.

Unaware of the impending trials, James found himself fast asleep in the armchair. Sherlock paused in his performance to place a blanket around James before continuing to play. His mind trailed off, recalling how James looked in the oversized deerstalker cap. Sherlock couldn’t help but smile.


	10. Part III

By the light of a single desk lamp, James Moriarty Junior was writing a confession. He had done so countless times before, oftentimes in the early hours as he did now, writing until his hand cramped or his pencil lead was worn to a stub. Painstakingly, he drew to memory every last detail of the time he had spent with his father, trying to document absolutely everything. It seemed every time he performed this exercise he recalled more and more. First a few sentences, and now the front and back of the paper still wasn’t enough. He stopped when the paper ran out, reading over what he had written. It made him unspeakably angry, not at his father, not as his luck, but at himself. It all seemed so obvious to him now, so easy to have avoided the situation and never have experienced it. Why had he been so stupid, so blind, so naïve? The more he read, the more he wondered if he was fabricating details, thinking up situations that never occurred and interlacing them into the truth. This frustrated him more than his evident stupidity as a three-year-old, because this infuriating mistake was occurring in the present, with his current self.

James crushed the paper into a ball with both hands, taking out his anger in crumpling it tighter and tighter, and then throwing it into his trashcan. The crumpled paper landed on top of the overflowing heap of similar papers that were already filling the can, rolling onto the floor to join several more papers that had met the same fate.  
            James wanted more than anything to feel better. It seemed logical to him that externalizing his feelings and dealing with them physically would bring him at least some relief, but every time he wrote out his confessions and crumpled the paper, he didn’t feel the least bit better; in fact, he often felt worse, as he did now.

Out of habit, James turned next to beating on his pillow, screaming into it, sobbing; once he felt numb, eliminated himself of overwhelming emotion, he turned to pacing, taking stock of the room, familiarizing himself with what was real and present. When he grew tired of pacing, he curled up by his bookshelf, reading excerpts from whatever book he pulled from the shelf, moving on to a new book when the first no longer distracted him enough from reality.  When James ran out of books, he waited. Tonight, he didn’t have to wait long. A soft knock came at the door; a minute later, Sherlock poked his head in and searched the room, whispering.

“James? You awake?”

Their eyes met. James had on a blank stare, which was not unusual for someone awake at four in the morning.

“Tea and scones okay? I know you prefer biscuits, but we’re all out.”

James shrugged. “S’fine, I guess.”

He got up from the corner where he was sitting and followed Sherlock down to the second floor, the two of them sipping tea and munching scones in absolute silence.

This had become a ritual of theirs. Most of the time, Sherlock couldn’t sleep past three or four. Whenever he heard the sound of pacing on the floor above, whether he was wide awake or awakened by the sound, he began his countdown. He knew that if James had gotten past writing and throwing a fit without falling back asleep, he was certainly awake for good. Sherlock had calculated just how long it took James to get through his pacing stage and his reading stage, give or take a few minutes. When the time came, Sherlock paid him a visit, assured himself he was alright, and invited him to partake in the day’s activities.

At first, Sherlock had tried to find other solutions for James’ nearly nightly obsession with his childhood trauma. Nothing worked; at least, nothing that didn’t extract mindless violence out of the tormented boy. It seemed that every night, at a certain hour, James’ past took hold of him by the throat and submerged him back into his past. The only way James could surface back to the present was through the simple steps he invented himself. Anything else left James submerged and desperate for escape.

Sherlock and James had kept James’ problem completely secret from everyone, especially Mycroft, who they were sure would interfere in some unwanted manner if he knew. Once, James had even spent the night at Mycroft’s mansion just to ease Mycroft’s growing suspicion that James had a sleeping problem. It had been tricky, but Sherlock had managed to slip sleeping pills in James’ pillowcase, and James secretly took the pills when Mycroft’s back was turned. He slept like a corpse. The two of them had managed to evade further suspicion for now.

As James finished up his third cup of tea, Sherlock grabbed his overcoat and handed James his pea coat. James slipped it on without question as Sherlock donned his scarf.

“Care for a little trip to the hospital, Jamie?”

“Sounds good to me, mista Sherlock,” he replied, unconsciously beginning to fix his hair.

Sherlock frowned. “Stop it.”

James took note of what he was doing, ruffling his own hair to mess it up once more. “Sorry.”

They were both well aware of what it meant when James’ habit of grooming surfaced. Sherlock eyed him with worry.

“Are you sure you’re alright? Did anything different occur tonight?”

James shook his head a bit, all his nightly rituals becoming a blur after they occur.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “I don’t know, I might have been more… angry than usual.”

Sherlock looked at him a moment longer before dismissing it. “Keep an eye on it. Keep me informed.”

“Yes mista Sherlock…”

Silently, they crept down the stairs and made a swift exit from the flat. James was met with a gust of cool night air that sent a shiver down his spine; the air was cleaner at this hour with less cars driving around, sweeter even. James looked up and down the street and didn’t see a single soul. He couldn’t help but smile; London at four in the morning was a London that belonged exclusively to him and Sherlock.

They made their way down the street, having to walk to the hospital due to the scant amount of cabs prowling around this early. James didn’t mind. While his mind may be wide awake all night long, his body dragged behind, exhausted; a bit of exercise and the chilling night air did wonders to wake a person up.

“Now, remind me,” Sherlock said casually. “Did we have some sort of commitment today..?”

“Yeah,” James answered, trying hard to keep pace with his mentor and friend. “The Watson’s invited us over for lunch.”

“Ah yes,” Sherlock remarked. “That’s right.”

The two of them continued in silence until they made it to St. Bart’s. Sherlock made his way to Molly’s laboratory space there, setting up to perform some experiments. James took his place on his stool in the corner, fetching his notebook from the table as he passed. Quietly, he flipped through the notebook full of notes and observations until he came to a blank page. Poised with pen in hand, he waited.

Sherlock began to work. Silent at first, but after a few minutes he simply began talking, narrating what he was doing. James began to write, not missing a word or detail, jotting down his own observations as well. James didn’t mind his job as Sherlock’s more-or-less official scribe. Sherlock would skim over James’ notes and oftentimes find correlations he didn’t see on his own, for James was his own person; his perspective and his genius were unique from anyone’s.

Six o’clock. James marked the time and continued to take notes. At six-fifteen, Molly Hooper arrived for work, finding the door to the lab locked and the two of them knee-deep in hazardous chemical experiments; it was alright, however, for both Sherlock and James had donned safety googles around five-thirty. Molly, nevertheless, was unable to get into the lab. For her own safety, of course.

“Sherlock,” she knocked on the door, drawing absolutely no attention from the boys. “What are you two doing in there?”

“Creating Ununpentium,” he replied offhandedly, working delicately. “We’ll only be a minute.”

“Fourteen minutes, to be exact,” corrected James.

At precisely six-twenty-nine, the experiment was concluded. With a nod from Sherlock, James unlocked the door and let Molly inside. She was shaking her head, used to the two of them being there so early.

“I can’t imagine how you two stay awake so long.” She put on her lab coat.

James shrugged, taking off his goggles, reaching on his tip-toes to take Sherlock’s off his face, and putting them away in the cabinet. He then proceeded to neutralize all their chemical concoctions and clean up all the equipment. Sherlock looked at Molly.

“Molly, is it customary for a lunch guest to provide a gift to the host?”

She was taken aback by the question. “N-… No, I don’t think so.”

“Good.” Sherlock helped James return the equipment to where it all belonged.

“Why…?” was Molly’s inevitable follow-up.

“Oh, no reason, really. Just wondering,” came Sherlock’s off-handed reply.

Once done, the two of them put their coats back on and headed for the door.

“Goodbye, Molly.” Sherlock called briefly.

“Have a spiffy day, Ms. Molly!” Came James’ much cheerier echo.

The two of them were gone as quick as they had come.

While walking down the street, which had become alive with activity as everyone rushed to their day jobs, James couldn’t stop smiling. Sherlock eyed him curiously, looking back ahead.

“What is it now, Jamie?”

“Oh, you know,” James smiled more. “Just thinking of something Albert Einstein once said.”

“Which is..?”

James quoted the famed scientist. “’Most people say that it is the intellect which makes a great scientist. They are wrong: it is character.’ You must have exquisite character, mista Sherlock, ‘cause you’re a top-notch scientist, you are!”

Sherlock smiled a bit. “I’ve got one for you.”

“Yeah?” James couldn’t keep the pleasant surprise from his voice.

Sherlock glanced at him. “From Michelangelo. ’Genius is eternal patience.’ And you, Jamie, are _the_ most patient. Not to mention diligent.”

“Shucks, mista Sherlock, now you’re just flattering. How about some breakfast, then? I’m feeling peckish, aren’t you?”

Sherlock shook his head to himself. James could never take a compliment without shifting the focus of the conversation away from himself. It was all because James didn’t think very highly of himself, of course. And while humility was admirable, underestimation was simply foolish.

He took James to a small café that was bustling with folks grabbing coffee and a bite to eat on their way to work. The dining area was practically empty, as no one had the time to sit down and spend a minute or two; people are always so busy, so distracted. James picked out a table in the back corner, a booth, and sat with Sherlock. They both got coffee, to which James added a gross amount of sugar. While Sherlock ate light, reviewing the notes taken by James that he had slipped in his coat, James wolfed down an entire plate of eggs, bacon, sausages, fried bread, baked beans and mushrooms. He was a growing boy, after all.

They spent an hour at the café and took their time returning to the flat. They arrived back precisely at 8 o’clock as the postman delivered their mail. He, too, was used to their morning routine, smiling friendly at the two of them, handing Sherlock their mail and slipping James a lollipop. Sherlock unlocked the flat and went inside, heading immediately to the second floor and dropping the mail on the table. James was following close behind, and he dug through the mail to see if anything was for him. A soft cry of triumph escaped him as he found what he was looking for: a thick envelope addressed to him. Sherlock eyed it warily; James didn’t know anyone aside from his mother who would know to send him mail at Sherlock’s flat.

“What’s that, Jamie?” Sherlock said casually as he took his place in his armchair, tuning his violin.

“Another tape recording!” He couldn’t contain his excitement, the words coming out muffled by the lollipop tucked in his cheek.

“Ah,” Sherlock remarked, satisfied. James was regularly receiving tape recordings of college lectures, usually forwarded to their address by his mother; this one was the first to be mailed directly to him.

     Without another word, James ran up the stairs to his room so that he could listen to the new tape. Sherlock heard the soft thumping of Socrates’ tail of the floor as he found James to be home. Sherlock played his violin. Mrs. Hudson emerged from the kitchen, bringing him tea and breakfast.

     “Don’t eat too much now, Sherlock,” she chided. “You promised John and Mary you’d meet them for lunch in two hours.”

     Sherlock frowned, baffled. “Lunch? At eleven?”

     “Well sure,” Mrs. Hudson defended as she headed downstairs. “Some people eat earlier than you, Sherlock.”

     Sherlock sniffed in amusement at the irony; Mrs. Hudson was completely unaware of how early he and James were up every morning. He ignored the tea and food and continued to play his violin.

____________________________

“What am I supposed do if she wants to do something girly or stupid?” James whined.

He was overreacting upon learning that he was being sentenced to take on the role of play-mate to Kate Eloise Watson. It was rare that James ever acted up, but he drew the line at spending time with other children. James simply couldn’t _stand_ other children. The few he had interacted with before had left a permanent bitterness between him and the others of his general age group.

Since James was usually a calm and collected child, Sherlock had precious little experience in having to persuade him to do something, and even less experience in persuading him to do something he didn’t want to do.

“Then do it. It’s simple.” Sherlock was quickly losing his patience, and the cab had nearly arrived at the Watson’s house.

“Why can’t I refuse?”

“That would be rude.”

“And why can’t I bloody well be rude?”

“You know perfectly well why.”

“I still don’t want to! I won’t play with her! It’s demeaning!”

Sherlock sighed heavily, starting to get a headache. “How about this, James: pretend this whole lunch with the Watson’s is a case. You’re in a foreign country with foreign customs and you’re undercover. Now, everyone thinks you’re just some simple, charming local, but if you act differently, don’t conform to custom, your cover will be blown. So no matter how silly or ridiculous the customs might be, you have to stick to them. How does that sound?”

James was silent, a sign that the desire to argue had left him. Sherlock was relieved; it wasn’t a moment too soon. The cab pulled up at the Watson’s house, and Sherlock and James exited the vehicle, making their way to the door.

Mary answered, seeing her guests and beaming. “Sherlock! James! How lovely to see you!”

She turned and called into the house. “John! Kate! They’re here!”

She turned back to her guests. ‘Come in, come in!” She moved out of their way.

James followed Sherlock as he stepped into the house, looking around. The place was very charming, giving of a warmth that was both inviting and familiar. James took in everything at a glance, being interrupted as Mary gave him a hug.

“Look at you! You’ve gotten so big!” She was beaming at him, and James couldn’t help by smile back.

“I’ve missed you and Mr. John, Ms. Mary. The countryside’s pretty and all, but it tends to be pretty lonely, you know?”

She smiled fondly, then turned on Sherlock, feigning anger. “How could you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes! Keeping our little James all to yourself for a whole month now!”

Sherlock eyed her in amusement. “What can I say? I’m a selfish man.”

“Sherlock!” John came down the stairs, carrying a little girl in his arms. He set her down as he embraced his long time best friend.

James stared at the little girl. _So this is Kate Eloise Watson_ , he thought to himself. She was nothing like he expected. She had curly locks of the purest blonde hair that seemed to capture the soft light of dawn in its color and shine; it was similar to Mary’s hair color, but somehow it was better. Her eyes were big and brown and sparkled with something James struggled to name. In fact, he struggled to deduce very much about her. Her was overwhelmed with just how darn cute she was. And when she smiled at him, a soft, sweet, cheery smile, he gave up completely.

“Are you James?” She asked, eyeing him up and down, hands on her hips. “Well. You don’t look like it.”

“Huh…?” James was struggling to gather just how one speaks to an average three-year-old.

“Mummy said you were smart. But you don’t have glasses. Glasses make you look smart.”

“Oh…” James fumbled.

She frowned, a look so serious it was nothing but ironic on her baby face. “So what gives? You smart or you not?”

James opened his mouth to defend himself, but none of his words came out in anything more than a stutter. Luckily, he was saved as the adults intervened. John scooped up Kate Eloise.

“Ready for lunch, Katie?”

“Yes please, daddy!”

James stared as John took her to the dining room. He was roused as Sherlock put an arm on his head.

“You alright there, Jamie?” He was smiling, a bit patronizing.

James suddenly felt panicked. “I don’t know how to talk to a three-year-old, mista Sherlock!”

Sherlock couldn’t help but chuckle. “It’s no different than talking to me or anyone else, James. Just the topics will probably be a bit simpler. Now come on. Let’s eat.”

Lunch was more than bearable for James. Not only was the food good, but the conversation was refreshingly different than the kind of conversation that took place between he and Sherlock on a day to day basis. Everyone caught up with one another. The Watson’s were very much interested in how James as doing, and were more than thrilled to see and hear he was doing quite well. James enjoyed listening as the adults exchanged funny stories, many of them about Kate Eloise. As much as James would have liked to stay put and listen, Kate Eloise quickly grew tired of hearing stories about herself, getting down from the table and tugging on the sleeve of James’ shirt.

“Let’s go play!”

James looked at Sherlock, who was busy talking with John. He looked back at Kate’s big brown eyes.

“Okay…”

She beamed like the sun. “Come on!”

She didn’t let go of his sleeve as she ran up the stairs to her room. James shuffled along behind her, looking as they entered what he could only imagine was her room. It was painted a soft shade of pink. Her bed, too, was pink, and was covered in a sea of stuffed animals. The usual furniture was present as well: a dresser, a mirror, a bookshelf; off to one side was a trunk full of what appeared to be dresses and costumes. She took James to a small table with four tiny chairs. The table was set with a china tea set, and three of the chairs were occupied by stuffed animals and dolls. She let go of James’ sleeve, throwing one of the dolls out of its chair, and offering the chair to James. James sat down obediently, knees up to his chest as he sat. Kate went digging through the trunk of costumes and came back over with a tiara, which she placed quite carefully on James’ head.

“You’ll be the duke,” She said. “And I’ll be the queen!”

“What am I the duke of..?”

Kate stopped what she was doing to think, looking around her room for ideas until she spotted a teddy bear. “The Duke of Teddington.”

“Oh,” James was surprised. “Okay then…”

Kate pulled on a pink frilly dress over her other clothes and placed a sparkly crown on her head, sitting herself down in her chair with an exaggerated sigh. She took up the teapot and poured imaginary tea into each of the four cups, making the sound of pouring tea with her mouth. James picked up pretty quick on what was going on. He held his saucer and cup like a gentleman and sipped at the imaginary tea. Kate sipped hers too, but she made exaggerated sipping noises as she did. James started to make the sipping sounds as well.

“Don’t do that!” chided Kate in exasperation.

“Sorry Kate…”

She pouted. “No! I’m not Kate! I’m the queen!”

James remembered the premise of the game. “My apologies, your majesty.”

She adopted an extraordinarily posh accent. “You are forgiven, Duke Teddington.”

The game of tea continued longer than James anticipated. He was fine with it, however; it was easy to lose track of time when you’re having fun. Before he knew it, he, too, was speaking with such a ridiculous accent that Kate giggled every time he said something. He decided to add a lisp as well, which made them both giggle themselves onto the floor. After tea, the Queen tried on all her dresses, and the Duke complimented every single one. Then, the Queen was attacked by her rival, the infamous Teddy Bear King, and the Duke had to duel him to the death. The Teddy Bear King stabbed the Duke, but the Duke came back to life as a zombie, much to the Kate’s amusement.

After a while, there came a soft knock at the door. Sherlock and John opened it to find Kate standing on one of her tiny chairs sloppily applying lipstick to James’ face. The two kids looked at the two adults as their imaginary world was intruded by reality.

“What exactly is going on here..?” John was baffled. Sherlock was smirking, snickering under his breath.

Kate smiled. “Hi Daddy. I was just making the Duke of Teddington look more like a zombie. He didn’t look very much like a zombie before.”

James didn’t look over, face turning quite red as he could hear Sherlock laughing.

“Well, James and Mr. Sherlock are leaving now. What do you say to James for playing with you?”

She beamed at James. “Thank you James!” She planted a kiss on his cheek.

“You’re welcome…” James mumbled, handing her his crown and shuffling over to the door.

Sherlock was still smiling. “Let’s get you cleaned up a bit before we leave.”

They went into the bathroom and Sherlock helped James wipe all the lipstick off his face.

“Well? Was it as horrible as you thought it would be?” Sherlock asked.

James shrugged. “Could’ve been worse, I suppose.”

There was silence between them as they left the Watson’s, hailing a cab. They were well on their way back to their flat when Sherlock spoke back up, voice rather smug.

“So, the Duke of Teddington, was it?”

James shot him an insincere glare. “You’re just jealous you don’t have a prestigious title.”

They laughed. They went home. They continued with their habitual lifestyle.


	11. Chapter 11

A few months passed by rather uneventfully. Cases starting cropping up again for Sherlock, who sometimes took James along and sometimes didn’t. James was content to spend his time with Socrates and a couple of books on challenging material when he was left alone. Mrs. Hudson made sure the boy ate and slept and functioned properly when Sherlock wasn’t there to do so. The more Sherlock was out on cases, the more time Mycroft spent visiting. James enjoyed Mycroft’s company almost as much as he enjoyed Sherlock’s. His days with Mycroft were exhilaratingly different than those spent with Sherlock. Mycroft would talk of politics and government, of how to control a conversation and lull people into feeling they have a say in matters, and other such conversational techniques. When Mycroft wasn’t talking politics or something similar, he was inquiring as to how James’ life was going. James, once started, could go on for hours relating the events of his current life to Mycroft.

James mind was constantly racing, perceiving enough observations in one moment to fill pages upon pages with notes. Not only did James observe the practical and material, he went further as to explore that philosophical and fanciful implications of just about everything. This was one of the ways James differed from both Mycroft and Sherlock: he didn’t just observe what was there to be seen and make deductions, he dreamt as to what it all could mean and wrote poetry and philosophy in his mind. This, however, often interfered with even the simplest of deductions, as he would often look too far into what he observed and make conclusions that surpassed what he was able to rationally conclude.

One day, Mycroft entered his brother’s flat to find James tossed in a lounge chair, quite clearly stressing over something. This was highly abnormal for James, who was usually either carefree or considerate enough to conceal any negative emotions. Socrates was laying at his feet, and he lifted his head when Mycroft entered, tail thumping the ground as it wagged in greeting.

 “Is something the matter, master James?”

James continued to stare straight ahead with an expression of intense worry. “It’s nothing…”

Mycroft sighed. “As amusing as it might be to try and deduce what may be stressing you, I’d rather you just tell me.”

James eyed him unhappily. “It’s Kate Eloise’s birthday today.”

“And?”

“I wanted to buy her a present.”

The weight of James’ words took a minute to fully sink in. Mycroft took in a deep breath, hesitating.

“If you wish to go shopping, James, I would be _delighted_ to take you.”

James gave Mycroft a funny look. “Really….?”

Mycroft forced a smile. “Oh absolutely.”

James winced a bit at the smile; he was beginning to decipher Mycroft as he was able to do Sherlock. Simple mannerisms spoke volumes to James. “I promise I’ll be quick…”

James slipped on his coat and headed out with Mycroft. They drove into town to one of the nicest and yet still remote toy stores London had to offer. There were definitely nicer stores, but Mycroft refused to rub elbows with the likes that would be shopping there. As the two of them entered the store, James immediately took in the layout and headed to the most logical location to find girly toys. Mycroft followed James at a more reasonable place, turning up his nose at the pettiness of the store. Cheap plastic, pungent rubber, shoddy fabric; toys were not something Mycroft often subjected himself to dealing with.

Mycroft paced in front of the aisles until he located James. The boy had already picked out the perfect present for his young friend and was intently admiring the science kits and other such crafts.

“Ah,” Mycroft smiled thinly as he walked over. “I see you found a present for Ms. Kate Eloise. Shall we be done, then?”

James looked at Mycroft pleadingly. “Can I get a chemistry set, mista Mycroft sah? Please?”

“I don’t believe little Ms. Watson is old enough for such things, master James.”

“No,” James corrected sheepishly. “For myself.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at James and gave the chemistry set in question a scrutinizing glance. “This is rubbish, James. Absolutely rubbish. If you wish to have a chemistry set, I shall not allow you to settle for anything less than professional grade.”

“Really? You mean it, mista Mycroft?”

He gave James a genuine smile and ruffled his hair a bit. “Only the best for my James.”

James beamed, unable to help but give Mycroft a hug, no matter how brief. “Thank you!”

Mycroft got on the phone and spoke with someone who could send such a chemistry set, handing James his credit card and heading back to the car. James took his present for Kate Eloise to the counter and paid for it, taking it back to the car. They drove to the Watson’s house, and James exited with the bag, ringing the bell.

Mary answered the door. “Why hello there James! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

James displayed the bag. “I’ve got a gift for Ms. Kate Eloise.”

Mary smiled, calling into the house. “Kate! You have a visitor!”

James watched as the little girl appeared at the top of the stairs and came down them, running to the door. Mary stepped aside to give James and her a moment.

“Hi James!” she beamed, a bit out of breath. She was wearing a paper tiara that read ‘Birthday Girl.’ “Bring me anything?”

“Of course.” James brought the bag out from behind his back.

Kate smiled a bit. “Not a lot of fancy wrapping. I like it.”

She took the bag and opened it, squealing happily as she pulled out the stuffed dog. James liked the dog; it resembled Socrates.

“I hear he likes to have tea parties,” James remarked as she strangled the stuffed animal in hug.

“Thank you James!” She stretched and managed to pull him into a hug, nearly tipping him over. She planted a kiss on his cheek before letting him go.

James felt his ears burn red as he straightened himself back upright, stuffing his hands in his pockets awkwardly, watching as Kate ran off with her new toy. Mary was smiling.

“That was very thoughtful of you James. Thank you.”

“Yeah, sure thing…” James mumbled. “Cheerio, Ms. Mary.” He made his way swiftly back to Mycroft’s car.

Mycroft looked in the rearview mirror as James climbed into the back seat.

“Are we done then?”

James nodded. They drove back to the flat.

____________________________

     Sherlock was home before the week was over. As promised, he and James went out to dinner so that Sherlock could tell him all about the case. James was exuberant to have his mentor and friend back, and Sherlock couldn’t deny that he had found himself missing the company and counsel of the young boy. The food was of little importance to them; it was a treat for both of them to hold a conversation with another genuine voice answering back.

     The spent nearly three long hours chatting. Sherlock never told of his cases in a straightforward manner, but instead led James through the events and allowed him to try and solve the case for himself before Sherlock would reveal what happened. James didn’t take much prompting before he had practically solved the case, though he still hung on Sherlock’s every word as he narrated everything that took place.

     “So, how are you doing, James?”

“I’m doing okay, mista Sherlock.”

“Anything happen while I was gone?”

James shrugged. “Socrates ate an entire glove whole, Kate Eloise Watson had her birthday, Mista Mycroft bought me a chemistry set….”

“A chemistry set?”

James nodded. “A professional one, he said.”

“Huh…”

“I asked for one.”

“I suppose that makes sense then. Anything else?”

“I got a new lecture tape. It was a very good lecture.”

They continued to chat idly for some time, speaking of things that held little importance in the world until the hour grew quite late and James began to show signs of exhaustion, his eyelids heavy and him yawning nonstop. Sherlock paid for their food and headed home with the boy, who stared out the window of their cab and just about fell asleep. It didn’t help that this cab had the heat cranked up, and the entire car felt like as warm and comfortable as a seat by the fire.

Sherlock goaded him gently out of the cab, getting out behind him, heading into the flat as James stood dozing on the sidewalk, swaying a bit. It had been a long day for him; it had been a long day for weeks, in fact. Sherlock let him take his time getting into the flat, heading inside himself. He climbed the stairs, taking off his coat and undoing his scarf when he was caught off-guard by a familiar voice.

“Hello Mr. Holmes.”

A frown creased into Sherlock’s face as he turned slowly. Just as he suspected, sitting in his chair, as comfortable as if she owned the place, sat Irene Adler. She was lounging sideways in the chair, legs dangling over one arm and back propped against the other, her one arm hanging down to pet Socrates, who lay at his customary spot at the foot of the chair. She looked as beautiful as the day they had last seen each other, with her hair done up and her make-up on point, wearing a lovely dress to match. Sherlock stood unmoving, momentarily distracted by her physical attractiveness.

“Ms. Adler. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She went from lounging to standing in one graceful movement, sauntering over to Sherlock and teasing with his shirt collar.

“Never mind why I’m here. Let’s have dinner.”

“I’m afraid I’ve just eaten.”

“Well then we can just chat.”

“I’m afraid I’ve done that already as well.”

“Who were you having dinner with if not me? Did you take your boyfriend John out for a bite? Oh wait, that’s right. John went and got married. Poor Sherlock, living all alone… it must be awful lonely for you…”

“I don’t live alone.”

“Oh, sweetie, your housekeeper hardly counts as company.”

“Oh, I’m not referring to Mrs. Hudson.”

“The dog doesn’t count either, darling, though he is a sweetheart.”

“I’m not referring to Socrates, either.”

She smiled a bit. “Socrates? That’s a rather funny name.”

Sherlock smiled coyly. “I didn’t name him.”

Her smile disappeared. “Well then who-…”  
            She cut herself short as she heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and saw Socrates heave himself to his feet and make a beeline for the stairwell. She turned around to find James in the doorway, pawing at his eyes with one hand and petting his mastiff with the other.

“Who’s this, mista Sherlock?”

“No one, James. And she was just leaving.”

Irene was dumbfounded. “Sherlock, who’s-…?”

He cut her off. “I said, she was just leaving.”

James cut in. “Now now, don’t be rude, mista Sherlock! We can’t send her home without offering her some tea!”

James hung up his coat and put on his best smile for Irene. “Care for any tea, ma’am?”

Irene stared at him, speechless.

“She doesn’t want tea,” Sherlock interjected.

James silenced him with a serious glare. “Mista Sherlock!”

Sherlock became rather cross, throwing himself into his chair, brooding.

“Well…?” James looked at Irene hopefully, intrigued by the unordinary guest.

“Oh please, Ms. Adler, stay and have some tea with us!” Sherlock’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

     “Fine then,” she answered curtly, sitting herself in the chair across from Sherlock. “Let’s have tea.”

     Giddy with excitement and no longer nearly so sleepy, James rushed into the kitchen with Socrates at his heels. He had never made tea before in his life, but the thought escaped him in this moment of exhilaration, and he set about figuring everything out on his own. Irene looked back, unable to help but be a little concerned about the six-year-old alone in the kitchen.

     “Shouldn’t we give him a hand..?”

     Sherlock rolled his eyes, still bitter. “He’s a sociopathic genius. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“Is he now..?” Irene was intrigued, leaning forward and smiling faintly.

Sherlock did his absolute best to ignore her, twiddling his thumbs and staring at the wall.

“And how exactly do you, Mr. Holmes, get a hold of a child who’s a sociopathic genius?”

He shrugged. “I have guardianship of him. It wasn’t that hard.”  
            “He’s not _your_ child, is he?” She sounded rather shocked.

He looked at her, frowning. “Oh no! Goodness no! His mother thought that me having guardianship would be for the best, since he is, as I said, sociopathic. And since his father is a bit… absent. For good reason, of course.”

“Of course,” she was smiling, amused again. “And why is he here with you and not with his mother?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Oh you know, his mother is in hiding. Due to that whole father business. Plus, I’m supposed to mentor him, per say. Keep him out of trouble.”

“Oh, but Mr. Holmes, you and I both know you _like_ trouble.”

He eyed her a moment before looking back at the wall.

She was grinning, James interrupting as he came in, wobbily balancing the tea tray and setting it down on the side table, struggling with the pitcher of boiling water as he poured it over the tea leaves and into the cups. Once finished, he handed a cup and saucer to Irene.

She took the cup, a mischievous glint in her eye. “How about you head to bed now junior? It’s very very late.”

James as caught off guard, looking to Sherlock for help. Sherlock offered none.

James turned back to Irene. “Well… I suppose I could always go read in my room…”

“That’s the spirit! Off you go!”

James reluctantly shuffled over to the stairs, hoping to be told to stay. He reached the stairs without receiving any such invitation, and climbed to the third floor in defeat. Socrates followed after him. There was a moment of utter silence as Irene waited to see if James was staying upstairs for good. Satisfied they were alone, she turned to Sherlock.

“I’m sure you’ve already guessed why I’m here.”

“You need protection.”

“I do.”

“What makes you think you’ll get it from me?”

“Because Mr. Holmes,” she breathed as she leaned in close. “I know you.”

She kissed him softly, pausing there a moment before pulling away. Sherlock frowned, looking at her intently, sure she had some ulterior motive. He couldn’t think, his mind slowed, distracted.

“Why now?” He asked, having to think aloud to keep his thoughts straight. “Why after eight years do you show your face again?”

She sat back in her chair, satisfied that she hadn’t be refused. “Someone has started trying to pry. Trying to find me. I travelled around to get them off my back and now I figure I’ll hide out here a few months, just until they lose interest.”

“And what makes you so sure they will?”

“Let’s just say I have… friends… who are more than happy to dispatch of this someone for me.”

Sherlock righted himself in his chair, looking at her questioningly. “Do you now?”

She raised her chin a bit in defiance. “I do.”

Another moment of tense silence passed.

“I’m just curious Ms. Adler,” Sherlock stood, beginning to pace. “When are you going to tell me why you’re _really_ here?”

“I just did!”

“Honestly, a lack of luggage? Fancy dress? You really expect me to believe-… Oh never mind that, I’m sure I’ll figure it out while you’re here.”

“Does that mean you’ll let me stay?” She sounded rather shocked.

He looked at her as if it were obvious. “Well of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

She was rendered speechless. Sherlock continued on in the absence of a response.

“You’ll be staying in the room upstairs, with James. He won’t mind. You can have the bed; he rarely sleeps as it is. And of course you’ll have to acquaint yourself with Mrs. Hudson. I’m sure you’ll think of an alias by morning, at which time I will see you for breakfast. Sound good to you, Ms. Adler?”

She didn’t have time to respond as he cut in again.

“Good. Then I bid you good night.” He began to walk to his room, paused, and gave her a kiss on the cheek before disappearing into his bedroom.

It took Irene a minute to fully grasp what had just happened. When she did, she slowly made her way upstairs, coming to James’ room and knocking softly on the door. She waited what seemed like an eternity out in the hallway alone. She was tempted to knock again, thinking she hadn’t been heard, when the door opened. James was standing there, a book on forensics clasped to his chest.

“Can I help you…?” He sounded tired.

“James? It was James, wasn’t it?”

He nodded.

“Hi there James. I don’t think we’ve properly been introduced. My name is Irene. Irene Adler.”

“Hello, Ms. Adler. I’m just going to ask you stop there. I take it you’ll have a new name by breakfast, so you can just introduce yourself then…”

He stepped out of the way and opened the door more for her to enter. She did, looking around the room. It was kept ridiculously tidy aside from the corner with a chair and bookshelf that was littered with books and papers scattered on the floor. The desk on the other side of the room was a bit disheveled as well, but in a fashion that suggested there was order in the chaos. Socrates lay carefully among the mess by the bookshelf, dozing and snoring quietly.

“Sherlock said I was to stay here…” She said absently as she looked around the room. Her long weeks of constant travel to avoid having her identity exposed were catching up with her, and fast.

James nodded. “I heard. Go ahead and take the bed. I never use it. I’ll be up reading all night as it is. The bathroom’s right through there if you need to change. I already found your suitcase. It’s in the bathroom, too.”

She looked at him funny, but refrained from questioning the curious boy just yet. Instead, she took his advice, going into the bathroom. Her suitcase was in fact there, and she changed into some more comfortable clothes to sleep in. When she came back into the bedroom, James had taken up his seat in the corner and was reading his book once more. He had already taken the liberty to shut off all the lights except the one beside his reading chair. Irene crawled into his bed, feeling herself engulfed by exhaustion the moment she became horizontal. Her feet ached, her eyes were sore, her stomach was in knots from stress; no sooner was she in bed that she was asleep. And for the first time in several weeks, maybe even months, maybe even eight years, she slept long and deeply and well.


	12. Chapter 12

Irene came down the stairs to find Sherlock and James having breakfast, and an untouched plate waiting for her. Socrates was laying beneath the table, lazily awaiting crumbs. She joined the boys; Sherlock was browsing all the papers for an interesting case, but James wasn’t too busy to smile at her.  
“Good morning, Ms. Jones,” he greeted through a mouthful of toast.  
“Morning freckles,” she replied as she sat down, drawing her robe around her better, beginning to eat.  
Irene Adler had been with them at 221B Baker Street for a total of two weeks. She had, in that time, created the alias of Bridget Jones, become fast friends with Mrs. Hudson, and had grown closer with both James and Sherlock. What she hadn’t done was ever leave the flat or anything suspicious. Yet.  
James pouted a minute in silence, watching her eat and sip her tea, her picking up and reading the newspapers Sherlock cast aside.   
“I don’t have that many freckles…” he muttered.  
“Oh yes you do,” she replied off-handedly. “They’re all over your nose.”  
“Yeah, but nowhere else.”  
“Check your arms, dearest.”  
James pulled up his sleeves to check his arms. He had an average amount of freckles on his fair skin. "So what?”  
“So nothing.”  
James was ready to make a jab at her when Sherlock intervened with an annoyed sigh.  
“Lestrade is coming over for a bit, James. You like Lestrade, don’t you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “You never met the Detective Inspector, did you Ms. Adler?”  
“I don’t believe so, no.”  
“Good,” Sherlock tossed aside the newspaper he was reading and picked up another. “You should be fine to sit in.”  
No one had time to question Sherlock, for the door downstairs flew open and up the stairs ran the man in question. Lestrade appeared in the doorway, panting.  
“For Christ’s sake, Sherlock! I thought you said there was an emergency!”  
“There is,” Sherlock didn’t look up from his newspaper. “James here needs to get out of the house. He’s starting to become irksome. Do you mind taking him to work with you?”  
James’ face lit up. “Oh would you, mista Detective Inspector? Oh please, please!”  
Lestrade was still trying to catch his breath, shaking his head in disbelief. “Yeah sure, kid. Why not?”  
James jumped up from the table and ran to his room to change out of his pajamas. Socrates stayed put, still hoping for a crumb or two to join him on the floor. Irene eyed Lestrade up and down, smiling to herself, a smile which she hid with her tea cup. Lestrade noticed her for the first time, frowning in utter confusion.  
“Who’s this, Sherlock?”  
“A friend,” he said curtly.  
“Bridget Jones,” Irene added politely.   
“A lady friend?” Lestrade was grinning.  
Sherlock fixed him with an icy stare. “She is a friend who also happens to be a woman, yes.”  
“Huh.”  
They were interrupted as James came barreling down the stairs, dressed in an oversized navy blue shirt, worn out jeans, and the deerstalker cap. At the sight of the hat, Sherlock hid himself behind his newspaper, successfully avoiding the cheeky grin Lestrade sent his way.  
“Nice hat, kid.”  
“Thanks!” James beamed proudly. “It’s a detective’s hat! Like Sherlock!”  
“I can see that.” Lestrade followed James down the stairs to the door, listening to him chat incessantly the whole way to Scotland Yard.  
“He’s quite a handful, that one,” Irene remarked after they had gone. “How do you put up with him?”  
“I put up with it because it’s simply the right thing to do,” Sherlock said dryly. “The only other option would be to leave him for his father, which is beyond a doubt the worst thing anyone could do.  
“And besides,” he added as he got up to fetch his laptop. “He grows on you, after a while…”  
Irene smiled coyly. “I think you like him.”  
Sherlock shrugged. “He’s better than putting up with the average child, yes.”  
“Oh but I know you, Mr. Holmes,” she laughed. “You’ll keep anyone who will give you an ounce of praise.”  
“It’s not just that,” Sherlock remarked absently as he searched for more cases, lounging in his chair. “He’s smart. Far too smart to be left to his own devices. Without guidance, my guidance, he’d be a real danger to himself and others.”  
“Aren’t you a hero?”  
Sherlock ignored her further baiting, for he had just come across a case that had peaked his interest, and his full attention. He read the details and jumped up to get dressed.  
“I’m going out for a bit,” he called as he changed in his bedroom, coming back out for his coat. “Try not bring England to its knees while I’m gone.”  
____________________________  
James came home after lunch, having made quite the impression with the police department during his day with Lestrade. He entered the flat and stopped short, noticing the absence of Mrs. Hudson’s coat. It was definitely odd for her to be out, but not exactly unheard of. James climbed up the stairs slowly, sensing that something was off. The flat was extraordinarily quiet; no footsteps, no music, no clanking of dishes, no creaking of chairs, no shifting of floorboards, nothing. James entered the first floor to find Irene Adler poised in the desk chair with her coat on and her makeup done. Socrates was snoozing in the kitchen.  
“About time you got home,” she sighed impatiently as she stood. “Let’s go. We’re going to be late.”  
“What are you talking about? What’s going on?”  
“Try not to ask questions, darling; I know it’s hard for you.” she twirled him around and marched him done the stairs.  
The two of them exited the flat and came out onto the sidewalk, standing there.   
“Where’s mista Sherlock?” James asked timidly.  
“He’s out solving a case. Very typical. I knew he’d fall for it. I know what he likes.”  
James gulped, dreading the situation that was beginning to take form in front of him. “And Mrs. Hudson?”  
“I told her a needed a few things. The sort of things she’ll be running all over town to find.”  
James was silent a moment, feeling cold, his heart pounding in his throat, making it hard to breathe. “And what happens with us?”  
Irene watched as a black car with tinted windows pulled up to the curve and stopped. She grabbed James by his shirt collar and dragged him into the back seat, shutting the door behind them. The car pulled away and drove off.  
The two of them sat in absolute silence. James remembered what he was told and refrained from asking questions, though his mind was overflowing with them, suffocating from a lack of answers. He stared out the window, trusting Irene to be the nice woman he knew her to be.  
An hour passed by, agonizingly slow, in which time Irene made several phone calls. James listened to every last one, but felt no more enlightened by the one-way conversation he was able to hear. At last, the car finally came to a stop, and Irene exited the car, followed closely by an ever-curious James. He looked around, recognizing where they were. It was the private runway from which he had returned to England and met up with Sherlock and Mycroft. Today, the runway was abandoned, just a simple empty stretch of pavement. But it wasn’t entirely empty; there was James and Irene Adler and their car, and several hundred feet away, someone else, standing alone.  
Irene approached this someone, dragging James alone by his arm. James frowned, for he would have just as easily followed on his own without the added discomfort of his arm being yanked upon.  
“I brought the kid you asked for, just like we agreed,” Irene said.  
James squinted in the glaring sunlight to see who this someone was. When he heard their voice, his blood turned to ice and his heart failed to beat any more.  
“How nice of you to reacquaint a father with his son, Ms. Adler.”  
Irene was clearly shocked, stopping short. “Wait, you’re his father? The one Sherlock’s keeping him away from?”  
“The one and only,” Moriarty beamed. “Can’t you see the resemblance?”  
Irene looked at James, then back at Moriarty. There was, in fact, a striking resemblance between the two, despite opposite grooming habits. All at once, the weight of what she had done fell on Irene. She looked at James, saw how ashen he had become, and felt her stomach lurch with regret.   
“You’ll be safe now, Ms. Adler, as promised. No one will ever be able to compromise you. You’re free to go.”  
Irene hesitated, seriously thought about refusing, about grabbing James and taking him home and apologizing over and over; she wanted to undo her mistake before it was set in stone. James saw this, saw the wheels turning in her head, and took her hand. Irene looked at him.  
“Its fine,” he choked on his own words. “What’s done is done. At least right now you can walk away and live. If you try to back out of this, he’ll just kill you, and I’ll still be here. So go.”  
“James…” She didn’t know what to say, for there were no words that could save him. “I’m sorry…”  
“Don’t be,” he let go of her hand looking at her as he slowly backed away towards his father. “You won. You beat me. Don’t let anything spoil that for you.”  
“Off you go!” Moriarty shoed her away with a hand gesture.  
Slowly, Irene backed towards the car that had brought them here. She didn’t take her eyes off James as she did, mind racing trying to find a way to save him. She came to the conclusion that her best bet was to tell Sherlock, try and catch Moriarty before he was gone for good. She climbed in the car and disappeared into the distance.  
As soon as she was gone, a jet appeared on the horizon and swooped in, landing on the runway and cruising over to James and Moriarty. James felt numb; nothing felt real. He was sure he would blink any second now and find himself in his bedroom with Socrates snoring, Irene curled up in his bed, books littering the floor, lamp humming quietly. Instead, he ended up on a private jet, sitting across from his father as they took off, flying to who-knows-where.  
The first few minutes of the flight passed in silence, just the two of them sizing one another up. After a minute, Moriarty stuck a hand in his pocket and pulled out a pack of gum.  
He held out the pack to James. “Gum?”   
James cautiously took the pack and popped out a piece of gum for himself, chewing on it. He handed the pack back, and Moriarty did the same, tossing the piece into his mouth casually.   
“Tell me, James my boy, you’ve got yourself one of those fancy mind palaces, don’t you?”  
James stared at him, maintaining his silence. This made Moriarty smile.  
“What’s it like, not being able to forget?”  
James shifted in his chair, feeling his eye twitch a little. James didn’t know if he had a mind palace; if he did, he had never been there, at least not that he knew of.  
Moriarty leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Let’s play a little game. I need you to find something in that mind palace of yours. Can you do that for me? For you good ol’ Daddy?”  
James felt himself slipping away, heard Moriarty’s voice echoing distantly. There was a great pull, enough to rip apart his entire body, and then suddenly he was thrown into a corridor, one that was dejected and dirty. At the end of the corridor, which stretched out of perspective, was a single wooden door. Moriarty’s voice was echoing: “Let’s play a little game.” James made his way down the hall, slowly, like moving through water. The floor seemed to lurch beneath his feet, twisting and writhing. He could hear Moriarty’s voice shifting from audible to nothing more than a suggestion of a whisper. Suddenly, he began to sing in an eerily calm voice.  
“Hush little baby, don’t say a word…”  
James was reaching for the door handle.  
“Face in a pillow so your screams aren’t heard…”  
His hand grasped onto the knob.  
“Flying bullet shreds the brain…”  
He turned the handle, slowly opening the door.  
“They will never feel the pain…”  
Sanding on the other side of the door was three-year-old James, holding up a gun with shaking hands. Before James had time to react, the younger him pulled the trigger. James’ lost his breath as the bullet burrowed violently into his stomach. He was suddenly floating, weightless, blood oozing into a floating puddle in front of him. Everything was so slow, he could feel the pain creeping its way up his spine, inching its way to his head. The moment the pain reached the brain, a scream torn out of his chest, and everything zoomed by him faster than time itself. Suddenly it all came to a halt, and James was thrown onto the floor of yet another corridor, this one as clean and white as one from a hospital. Bleeding and shaking from shock, pain crippling him more and more with every second, James crawled his way to the white door at the end of the hall, seeing the entire place turn blood red and hearing his own scream deafen his ears with every subsequent wave of pain expelled forth from his panicked mind. It seemed like an eternity of pain and blood and fear and raw instinct of survival before James reached the door, straining himself to grip onto the doorknob, using his last ounce of strength to throw open the door.  
James gasped as he came awake in a hospital bed, no longer wounded or in pain. His heart was pounding faster and faster, reverberating in the room. He threw himself from the bed, running from the room through the only door available. He was met with a mob of press and flashing cameras. They swarmed him, though they were nothing more than pictures, snapshots of a moment from the past, unmoving. Moriarty’s voice snaked its way to him through the hubbub of the mob.  
“What’s it like, not being able to forget?”  
The longer he was among them, the stronger the feeling of anger became in James’ mind, pressing him to take action. Ignorance, stupidity, hunger for a false truth; they all attacked James at the very source of his intellect, causing him to want to lash out with the most primitive of retaliation. Fighting himself and the crowd, he pushed his way through everyone in a desperate attempt to reach the end of the hall for what seemed like an eternity. He reached out his hand, hoping beyond hope to find a door, engulfed in the utter rage that came with being misunderstood, at his breaking point. Moriarty’s voice echoed once more.  
“I need you to find something in that mind palace of yours.”  
James felt himself grip onto a doorknob and he threw open the door in violent desperation, stumbling inside. The door shut behind him and disappeared, leaving him trapped in a padded room, the sound of a disharmonious lullaby echoing faintly. Another figure was there with him, wearing a suit, hair slicked back. The figure turned around, stared him in the eyes, held a gun to James’ head. The figure was himself, a well-groomed, crazed version of himself. James felt the cold metal of the gun on his forehead, felt himself go just as cold with panic. There was a tense eternity of the two of them standing like that, one holding a gun to the other’s head. Then slowly, very slowly, well-groomed James moved the gun away from James’ head, gradually began to grin, a psychotic grin, the gun making its way into his mouth. James realized what was happening, and without thinking tackled the other him to the ground. They wrestled, punched, tussled, kicked, gouged. James felt all his anger escaping him, manifesting itself in senseless violence against this person who was his self. Before he knew what was happening, he was standing over this other version of him, pointing the gun at him. James was breathing heavily, euphoric from the raw violence, elated by the gash on his face and the blood pouring from his mouth and the nagging pain like a cancer inside him. He shot the gun, watched as the contents of the other James’ head splattered onto the cushioned walls, painting them a grotesque shade of red, fragments of skull bouncing about before ultimately resting on the ground in a radial fashion around where a head used to be. James’ high reached its zenith, finding James laughing uncontrollably, supremely contented with himself. His laugh was high-pitched and raspy, echoing in the room and growing louder and more deafening with each passing second. And suddenly, a scream shook the walls.  
James collapsed to the ground, body overcome with shock from killing and weakness from laughing so hard. When he looked up, the room was replaced by a single mirror, in which another James lay laughing as the first was. He stood up, watching as his reflation did the same. He was still holding the gun, hand stuck to it as if it were a part of him. James looked at his reflection in disgust, raising the gun to the mirror in a motion that had suddenly become second nature to him. He pulled the trigger, watched as the bullet ripped through the chest of the James in the mirror, gouging into his heart. Except his reflection had suddenly become that of Sherlock, who staggered from the bullet and collapsed to the ground. As Sherlock fell, so did James, whose view of the mirror was replaced by that of the ceiling as he went from vertical to horizontal. Blood bubbled up from his chest, filling his lungs and his mouth and choking him.  
In the ceiling there was another door. James reached for it weakly, but he could not move; the bullet had nailed him to the ground. Slowly, the room filled up with darkness, and James blacked out completely, thrown from his mind palace of chaos into the cool depths of simple unconsciousness.  
Faintly, he heard a voice, barely reaching him in his state of darkness.  
“You’re more like me than anyone will admit to you James. But don’t worry. You’ll find that’s not such a bad thing after all.”


	13. Part IV

     Nothing had ever been as difficult for James as waking up was in this moment. His head ached as if someone had taken a hammer to it; his stomach was twisted up in horrified knots; his heart fluttered like an injured bird, struggling to recover from what could only be described as the most horrendous fright of James’ life. Slowly, James pried his way back into reality, finding himself to be a lot less injured than he had imagined. While he did have a headache something fierce, the rest of him was fully functional in every aspect of the phrase.

Sitting up, James looked to see where he was. He was in a small bedroom, no larger than a closet, with a bed and a dresser barely fitting in the small space. The room was very dimly lit, only by the stray light peaking its way through thick blinds covering the only window in the room. Cautiously, a little disoriented and struggling to coordinate, James got out of bed and went over to the window, opening the blinds. He was immediately assaulted by daylight that made his headache worse, squinting at the sudden change in lighting. Slowly, he squinted his eyes open and peered out the window. Outside was a city, bustling about several stories below where James was. He didn’t recognize the sights at all; by the architecture and people on the street, this was nowhere in England; that much was fairly obvious, since James doubted they had taken a private jet just to hop across England.

James began to recall everything that had happened: the car, the jet, the horrific scenes in his mind palace; or, at least, James assumed that was where he had been. It seemed the most logical explanation for all the strange and eerily life-like visions that had occurred. Determined to figure out what all was going on, James made his way to the door and exited the small bedroom. He entered into what seemed to be a hotel room: there was a large bed in the center, flanked by two night stands and facing a dresser adorned by a flat-screen TV. Past the bed was a walled off room that James guessed to be the bathroom, and a small alcove with the components of a make-shift kitchen inside.

The hotel room appeared to be empty aside from James. The TV was on, muted, tuned in to a British news channel. James walked over to get a better view. The reporter was speaking grimly of a recent child kidnapping, the words in big bold print in a red ribbon at the bottom, and a picture of James appeared in the corner of the screen. James felt absolutely nothing while he watched. It was customary that the news make a fuss over a missing child at least for a day. After that, James would just be yesterday’s news. He knew he wouldn’t be found; his dad was far too slippery to be discovered if he didn’t want to be. The police may tighten their grip on him but he would just slither right out. Moriarty was an eel, and James a fish trapped in his teeth.

Despite his current situation, James didn’t feel the need to mourn or be upset. He was here because of his own mistakes, for trusting Irene, for not realizing sooner that something was going on. There was no one to blame, no one to be mad at, aside from himself; and at the moment, he was too drowsy and too hungry to be mad. Shuffling into the kitchen, James browsed the cabinets until he found some cereal, eating it out of the box by the handful. He sat cross-legged on the bed, watching the muted people on the TV. Lestrade made an appearance, looking rather grim. He was talking, going on the record, undoubtedly speaking about how they would find James with the help of Sherlock Holmes. James sighed, pained by the fact that the people who he cared about were hurting because he was missing, because of him. Luckily for James, a fire had devastated a cluster of homes and said story took command of the channel.

After a while, the door to the hotel room opened. James look to see Moriarty entering, carrying several large shopping bags. James watched him struggle through the doorway and set the bags on the ground.

“Morning junior,” he chimed dully. “Bought you a few things.”

James climbed off of the bed and peered into the bags. Suits, clothes, a fancy coat, boxes of ammo, countless cheap cell phones, hair products…

Jim handed him one of the bags. “Go try these on. Make sure they all fit.”

Obediently, James lugged the bag into his tiny closet bedroom, pulling out all the clothes. There were several expensive suits, a dozen or so simple textured t-shirts, a handful of different pairs of jeans, the same amount of pairs of cargo shorts, new briefs, socks, and lastly a simple black newsboy hat. At the bottom of the bag was a small container of hair gel and a packet of cheap combs. Methodically, James tried on all the clothes. He tried on one of the t-shirts, knowing that if one fit the rest of them would fit; they were all the same brand. They were tight-fitting and a little long, but they fit. Next, the jeans; he tried on each pair, paced in them, and found them to be acceptable, if not a little stiff. The cargo shorts were much more comfortable, though a little large; it just meant that they were lower on his waist then his other pants. He didn’t bother testing the socks or underwear, skipping to the suits.

He laid them all out, admired the fabric and the craftsmanship. Glancing to the side, he looked at himself in the little mirror poised on the wall above the dresser. He couldn’t help but stare, really looking at himself for the first time in a long while. He was so disheveled, he might as well have been homeless. Tired eyes, a tired stare, unkempt hair; James suddenly felt completely and utterly unacceptable. Grabbing the hair gel and one of the combs, he meticulously combed the knots and tangles from his hair, gelling it and parting it to the right of center, combing it all back until it fell neatly to one side or the other. Turning back to his suits, he tried the first one on, taking his time to smooth out the dress shirt, straighten the tie, and keep the suit crisp and unruffled. He turned and gazed at himself in the mirror; he didn’t even recognize himself. He was so clean, so sharp, so serious; he looked like the sort of person you wouldn’t cross, wouldn’t doubt, wouldn’t patronize; he looked like the person who he always wanted people to think he was. James looked at this new self in the mirror and he liked what he saw. A smile appeared on his face, a thin, smug, dangerous smile.

There was a knock on the door, and Moriarty’s teasing voice was heard from the other side.

“Knock knock! Can I come in?”

Without waiting for an answer, Moriarty entered the tiny room, seeing James in his suit with his hair slicked back. He smiled, walking over to James and snagging the comb from the dresser, playing with his hair a bit until he found a look he liked. Instead of slicked back, he combed it over to one side on a left of center part, combing the other bit back. The look suited James much better.

“There!” He grinned, taking a step back to admire his work. “Don’t you look sharp?”

James looked at himself in the mirror again. He didn’t look quite so mature, but he still looked serious. He rather liked the change better than the first.

Moriarty smiled impishly. “I’ve got a little present for you, James!”

James looked at him warily as he revealed a present from behind his back. James took the box, opening it up. Inside was a 1911 handgun, brand new and glistening. Carefully, James picked it up, handling it with the utmost skill and caution. He was very familiar with guns; he had gotten quite the lesson about them three years earlier in a certain warehouse with a certain psychopath.

“All your suits have a built in concealed holster in the waistband,” Moriarty smirked. “I figured you need to keep yourself safe in this big bad world, don’t you think?”

James made sure the safety was on and then holstered his gun in the pants of his suit. Surprisingly, the gun was not bulky or awkward, but rather fit perfectly and unnoticeably in its holster. Just for fun, James practiced drawing the gun from its concealed holster and pointing it at the mirror. The motion was fluid and quick with no snags or struggling or overreaching; the gun went from holstered to aimed in in the blink of an eye. Moriarty appeared in the mirror behind James, gripping his shoulders in a fatherly fashion.

“Look at you, James my boy!” He laughed. “You’re no different than I was at your age.”

James looked back at him, suddenly realizing the weight of what was going on, the fact that he was wielding a gun in his hands, grooming himself like Sherlock always told him not to. Reality came crashing down on James’ parade, and left him in a panic.

“I’m not like you,” James defended. “I’ll never be like you…!”

“Poor poor James,” Moriarty soothed. “Did you think that you were like Sherlock Holmes, or Mycroft Holmes? Did you think you were going to just grow up and be a Holmes boy? Or did you forget who you really are: James. Moriarty. Junior.”

Moriarty held James by the shoulders, taking a knee to be at eye level with him. His expression was that of sympathy, but his eyes were bottomless pits of deception. “Didn’t you see they were trying to change you? Trying to keep you from being you? That’s not right, James. You’re _special_. You’re better than they could ever hope to be and they tried to keep that from you. Me, I _understand_ you, James. I understand who you are, how you think, why you do what you do. Because you and I, we’ll _always_ be more alike than you are with the Holmes boys. _Always_. And believe me, James, I’ve struggled just like you’ve struggled. And I know what you have yet to figure out. Let me help you. Let me be your dad. What have you got to lose?”

James was speechless, hanging on every word, longing to be understood the way Moriarty promised he would. What harm could there be in getting some advice from him? Worst case scenario James would just ignore what he had to say and leave unscathed. Better yet, James might actually benefit from the advice of his father; they might be kindred spirits, just like Moriarty claimed.

And in his desperation to be understood, to be guided, to be respected for who he was, James let his guard down and trusted his father. For James now had the idea that there was something to be gained from Moriarty, and you can't kill an idea, can you? Not once it's made a home in your head.

Everybody makes mistakes.


	14. Chapter 14

The flat of 221B Baker Street was a buzz of activity and unwelcome guests. Scandal was in the air over the entire affair; with the mention of James and Sherlock together, old rumors concerning the happenings at the abandoned warehouse resurfaced and reared their ugly heads in newspaper articles day in and day out. Sherlock, however, managed to keep a level head, just as his protégé was doing hundreds of miles away. Sherlock deduced that the only way the media could have uncovered that James had gone missing was through the work of Jim Moriarty himself; Sherlock certainly didn’t tell the police, nor did Irene Adler or Mrs. Hudson, leaving the only other person who knew what happened to be the one who blabbed: Moriarty.

Sherlock was perched in his armchair among the hubbub of police investigation that was underway in his flat, his hands folded and fingertips at his lips, par the norm. He was trying to think, which was nearly impossible with Lestrade ordering everyone about, Mrs. Hudson fretting her head off, and Donavan questioning the real reason behind James’ disappearance, no doubt thinking Sherlock to be to blame. He was thinking back to the night that everything took place:

He had taken a cab to a far and remote location to investigate a murder that was in all aspects peculiar. Upon reaching the location of the police investigation, Sherlock immediately knew something had gone wrong: there was no police, there was no investigation, there was no murder. At first, Sherlock thought he had walked right into a trap. He perused the scene, expecting to be jumped or assaulted or confronted at some point. When nothing happened, Sherlock grew further mystified. Suddenly, his personalized text alert for Irene—a sensual sigh—sounded from his pocket, and he checked his phone. The text read, “I’m sorry Mr. Holmes,” followed by another that said, “Meet me back at Baker Street.”

Sherlock returned to the flat, dreading whatever news was there to greet him. He entered to find Irene in tears at the desk, crying silently as she stroked Socrates’ big bulky head. Mrs. Hudson was still out. Sherlock recalled the horrified words that came out of his mouth, bitter to the taste:

“What have you done?”

Sherlock was once again interrupted by Donavan and her nagging doubt.

“Why’d you do it, huh?” She pressed. “What could the boy have _possibly_ done to deserve this?”

Sherlock’s tone was no less menacing than a snarl. “I’ve told you a hundred times it wasn’t me, Sergeant Donavan. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to think.”

Sherlock stood from his chair and retreated upstairs to James’ room, where Irene was hiding and John was with her. John; he had come to see Sherlock the moment he called, not hesitating a minute. When Sherlock told him what had happened, informed him of Irene’s involvement, John was livid. He was mad at Moriarty, he was mad at Irene, but he restrained any anger he might have felt towards Sherlock. He reserved only console and friendship for his friend, who may not grieve visibly, but who was most definitely devastated by the loss of his young friend and protégé.

Sherlock entered James’ room and locked the door behind him, looking to see John sitting beside Irene on the bed. Irene had managed to calm down over the past few days, but it was clear she still felt agonizingly guilty about what she had done. She had wanted him to be angry with her, Sherlock recalled. She had wanted to be screamed at and dumped on the streets and suffer for her wrong-doing. But Sherlock refused to be angry with her; he knew how manipulating and convincing Moriarty could be. If he could trick Sherlock on more than one occasion, Sherlock couldn’t possibly be mad with someone else who Moriarty had tricked; all he felt was empathy for Irene, wishing he knew how to tell her that her actions were excusable in their unique circumstance.

“How are you doing, Sherlock?” John asked, voice overflowing with concern.

Sherlock eyed him, looked at Irene who was looking to him hopefully. “I’m fine.”

“Have the police gotten any leads on where he could be?” Irene asked.

Sherlock shook his head, pacing. “No, the police aren’t going to be of any use in helping us locate James. We’re the only ones who are capable of finding him. We’re the only ones that _think_.”

“Alright,” John was prepared to drop everything to help out his friend. “Is there any way to track James? A cell phone, or something?”

Sherlock shook his head again. “No. And if there was, Moriarty would have disposed of it by now. James is smart, he’ll be able to give us clues, traces to tell us where he’s been, if not where he is now. We just need to keep our eyes and minds open. Once we find the clues, we’ll have ourselves a place to start.”

What Sherlock refrained from mentioning was what he feared the most: that James wouldn’t want to be found, and so he _wouldn’t_ leave any clues or hints or traces. Moriarty was manipulating, smart, slippery; if he could keep James from wanting to be found, there would be no finding him. Not alive, at least.

“We’ll find him, Sherlock,” John cut in, frowning from the worry clouding his friend’s face.

Sherlock went over to the bookshelf, browsing the titles that were there, thinking of James, his bright eyes, his messy hair, his freckles, his laugh, the pain that engulfed his face at four in the morning. He thought about the man who caused him such torment, who now had James all to his own. Unbeknownst to himself, Sherlock had punched the wall out of anger, breaking through the drywall. He didn’t feel a thing as his fist bled and dripped onto the carpet. He turned, finding John already on his feet and examining his hand.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock muttered darkly.

He stormed from the room, went down the stairs, threw on his coat and scarf and left the flat before anyone had time to question him or his motives. Outside, it was pouring rain, lightning tearing through the sky accompanied by chest-stirring growls of thunder. He turned up his collar, shoving his hands into his coat pockets as he made his way down the street in the rain in utter determination. There was something truly dreadful that he had to do first if he ever wanted to find James.

First, he had to pay a visit to his dearest brother Mycroft Holmes.


	15. Chapter 15

James was bored. He had now spent three agonizingly long days cooped up in the hotel room. The only things he had to do were fix his hair, wear different clothes every hour, and practice wielding his gun. Moriarty had him take the thing apart and put it back together again dozens of times, and even had him do it all blindfolded. It occupied James for a day, but after that it was all too easy to keep James from being bored.

Today, James was laying on his back on the master bed, tossing a ball into the air that he had crumpled from a receipt that had been left in one of the shopping bags. He tossed it into the air, caught it as it came down, and did it all over and over and over again. Sometimes, he took a break to watch his father as he paced the room. He was currently wearing a plain white shirt and jeans, hair not nearly as neat as it is when he’s in public. He was pacing, making phone call after phone call and browsing through reports that he pulled from a thick postal envelope. Secretly, James found himself growing found of all Moriarty’s little ticks and quirks and mannerisms. If James could read people like a book, Moriarty was a tragic comedy, full of over exaggeration and menace juxtaposed in unbalanced harmony.

James could tell that his father often forgot that James was even there; he talked to himself in low, menacing tones and sometimes growled aloud in frustration, which almost always caught James off-guard and gave him a fright. Whenever Moriarty saw James or recalled he was there, he always thought of something for James to do in his closet of a room; it was always an excuse for Moriarty to lock him away and not be bothered by him.

Today, James had avoided detection, somehow blending into the background noise and shapes that Moriarty had become accustomed to ignoring. He tossed his paper ball into the air and listened to the steady sound of his father’s pacing. Back and forth, pause; back and forth. Suddenly, he stopped.

“James!” He called out as if expecting him to be in his room.

“Yeah?”

He whirled around, eyeing James with a look of crazed hatred. James wasn’t affected, staring back with his innocent smoky grey eyes. They stayed with eyes locked for a minute. Moriarty broke the stare with a huge smile.

“You’re gonna have a little play-date with your uncle Moran. How does that sound?”

“Horrible,” James wrinkled his nose in disgust, going back to tossing his paper ball.

Moriarty snatched the ball from midair, crushing in his fist and tossing it aside. James looked back at him, still wrinkling his nose. Moriarty eyed him levelly.

“Would you rather go commit a murder instead, junior?”

James blinked in shock. “Bloody hell no!”

It was Moriarty’s turn to snarl. “Then you’re going out with Moran. Get dressed.”

He yanked James off the bed by his shirt, tossing him towards his room. James staggered and stumbled, keeping on his feet and regaining his balance, stalking to his closet of a room. He stripped out of his shirt and shorts and put on one of his black suits with black dress shirt and red tie. Heading for the door, James paused as he saw himself in the mirror and fixed his hair, snagging his gun from the dresser before going back out into the hotel room. Tucking the gun into its holster in the small of his back, he marched over to Moriarty with a dark glare. Moriarty looked him up and down.

“There’s my James.” He pinched James’ cheek, something that was more patronizing than affectionate, smiling as he goaded a flinch out of him.

“Now remember our little rules about leaving the hotel,” Moriarty wagged a finger. “Act normal. Stay with either me or Moran. And no mind palace, not now, not ever, not unless you have my supervision in a safe environment. Got it?”

“Got it…” James muttered.

Moran showed up a few minutes later, carrying a brief case. James looked over the case and immediately identified it as a rifle case. James watched as Moran and his dad exchanged a few quick, tense words before Moran eyed up James.

“Come on, little swot,” Moran muttered gruffly. He was a tough looking fellow, scary even. But his lingo made him a lot less intimidating.

James followed Moran out the door, eyeing Moriarty as he passed. He could deduce nothing from his poker face and dead eyes. He left the hotel room and followed Moran into the elevator, sticking close to him as they left the hotel and walked down the street. James took in the town, enjoying the sensation of being outdoors and free once more. He listened closely, looked intently, thought with his mind wide open. Everything came flooding in. Sights, sounds, sensations, observations, every little detail. Taking a deep breath, he sorted it all in his mind, making sense of the jumble of facts. He was in a German-speaking country, most likely Austria from the architecture of the older buildings and dialect of German that was spoken. People were tense, working-class people; political turmoil, no doubt.

“Come on, mate. You’re dragging behind.”

James looked at Moran, who was correct in noticing James’ lagging gait. Shaking the unsorted observations from his head, James followed after Moran, keeping pace. Moran took him to a gun range, renting a private room and taking James inside. James watched tensely as Moran opened his case and assembled his rifle. Once finished, Moran looked at James.

“Give me your 1911.”

James took a second to process the request, then pulled his pistol from its holster, handing it over. Methodically, Moran filled the gun with ammo, setting it aside to do the same with his rifle. Once done, he pulled out a handful of foam ear plugs, handing James a pair. James took them and squished them into his ears, going nearly deaf. Moran did the same, taking up James’ pistol and walking over to the gate, past which was a hallway and at the end a target. He shot the target four or five times, testing the gun out. Satisfied, he looked at James and jerked his head to beckon him over. Cautiously, curiously, James went over. Without a word, Moran positioned James into a proper stance, fiddling the gun into a comfortable and secure grip for James. He made a few gestures, demonstrating how to aim the gun. James didn’t need the last bit of guidance; it wasn’t his first time ever shooting a gun. Squinting one eye, he leveled the gun with the center of the target and pulled the trigger. There was a kick, and a deafening bang muffled by the ear plugs, and then a hole ripped into the target, left of center.

James at first was shocked, then filled from head to toe with adrenalin. He turned to Moran, a grin spreading across his face. Moran was even cracking a slight smile. He helped James learn to aim more accurately, steady his hands more, deal with the backlash better. Three hours went by as if they were nothing. James applied his entire being to learning and perfecting his new-found skill, adapting incredibly fast. When Moran was satisfied with James’ skill at shooting, he took over for a while, shooting his rifle. James marveled at his sheer skill. He could hit the tiniest of targets as easy as one would swat at a fly.

Packing up, Moran disassembled his rifle and packed it away, making sure to restock James’ pistol with ammo before giving it back to the boy. James returned to gun to its holster, straightening out his suit.

“You’re a good shot, kiddo. Just don’t fall out of practice.” He gave James a discrete wink, leaving the shooting range with him.

James was elated, still trembling from all the adrenalin coursing through his veins. He didn’t even notice as Moran took them back to the hotel through the back alleys of the town. James did notice, however, when they were cut off by a handful of thugs, stopping them at gunpoint.

“You!” barked on of the thugs, approaching Moran, menacing him with his pistol. “You’re with Moriarty. He _owes_ me and my boys. Big time.”

Moran was unflinching. “And here’s your payment.” He nodded at James. “Kidnapped boy. Rich family. They’ll pay a fortune and a half to have him back.”

James felt his blood run cold, freezing to the spot. The thug eyed him like a wolf, causing James to gulp in fear. The thug turned to the others and barked at them in German, which James made out: “Grab the boy.”

The thugs came over to James, closing in on him. In desperation, James whipped out his pistol, holding it as if he were back in the shooting range, pointing at a paper target.

“Stay back!” James stuttered in German. “I’ll shoot!”

The thugs hesitated a moment, gave James one look over, and determined he as harmless. It was their fatal mistake. They took another step towards James—bang! bang!—and each of them took a bullet through the eyes. James began to feel panicked, but the feeling was almost immediately smothered in an overwhelming and cold sense of satisfaction. James looked at the others, and what had once been cool contempt towards him had suddenly become serious anger and fear. Two bullets and James made them take him seriously. What a power to wield!

While they were in shock, Moran attacked, disarming the other two thugs effortlessly and beating them out cold, knocking their leader unconscious with his rifle case. James was rooted to the spot, watching it all happen as if it were a dream, pistol still held ready to shoot. He was shaken from his trance by the sound of Moran’s gruff voice.

“Snap out of it, mate. Let’s get back and get the hell out of dodge.”

James was barely listening. In fact, he was somewhere else completely. He very faintly registered that Moran wanted James to follow him, and so he did. Other than that, nothing else was clicking. All James could think about was the look on the thugs’ faces when they heard to snap of gunpowder igniting. James had made them take him seriously, made them _all_ take him seriously. With only the change of a gun in his hands, James forced them to look past his six-year-old appearances and see that there lurked a serious, calculating threat beyond his youthful face and short stature.

James was having a revelation. Sherlock was intelligent to a flaw to gain respect, Mycroft was clever and calculating to get his respect; but there was another method to gain respect, a much quicker and unfailing method. It was hard for James to pin what that method was exactly, but he had just dabbled in it, whatever it was, and he was keen to learn more, to become more efficient at this other method.

James and Moran returned to the hotel room to find the scene had drastically changed. The place was immaculate, looking like it had never been lived in. Moriarty had change into one of his suits and fixed his hair. He shoved a suitcase into James’ arms.

“Pack your things, junior. We’re moving on.”

Still in something of a stupor, James shuffled into his room, mechanically folding his clothes and placing them in the suitcase. The last things that were left were James’ hair gel and combs and the clothes he had left England in. He packed the hair products and, in a moment of clarity, James tucked his old clothes in the dresser, hoping someone would find them and know he had been there, at the hotel. As he shoved his old pants into a drawer, he felt something in the pocket. Pulling it out, James found that he had never returned Mycroft’s credit card the time they had gone toy shopping. Mind working rapidly, James hid the card in a pair of his new jeans, zipping up the suitcase and coming out of his closet of a room. Moriarty and Moran were waiting impatiently by the door, Moran lugging two medium sized suitcases, Moriarty unburdened and groomed.

“Ready?” Moriarty sighed impatiently.

James nodded.

They left single file, Moriarty in front, Moran in back, James sandwiched between them like a prisoner. Down the elevator, into the lobby, out to the street, into a car with tinted windows, and off to who-knows-where once more.


	16. Chapter 16

Before long, everything was dark and quiet as the trio rode to their new destination. Moriarty was in the front seat beside the driver, dozing off. James was sitting in the back with Moran, who had reclined and fallen asleep hours ago. James had become awfully bored and not nearly as sleepy as he should’ve been. Staring out the window had become pointless, for he couldn’t see a single thing. Out the front window, there was nothing to see but endless road illuminated faintly by the car’s headlights. With nothing else to do, James thought of his mind palace, something he never knew he had access to. He remembered Moriarty didn’t want him using it without supervision, but James wasn’t nearly as intimidated by Moriarty as he should’ve been. In the quiet of the dark car, James focused intensely, and entered his mind palace.

Instead of emerging in a hallway like before, James found himself somewhere oddly familiar: a quirky little house. He heard the familiar sound of laughter faintly in the distance and could make out the sound of sad violin music somewhere close by. James wandered over to a staircase that lead to the second floor, which he climbed quite slowly, feeling like he was trapped underwater. He turned and looked down a short hallway, at the end of which lay two doors facing each other. The violin music was louder on the second floor than it was the first.

James walked down the hall, reaching to open one of the doors. The first room was full of familiar objects: books, his old bed, a humming computer, a beat up kitchen table. And standing at the center of the room was Missy, his mother.

“Mum…?” James was surprised, having to remind himself where he was.

“Hello darling.” She was smiling, the way he always liked to remember her.

“What are you doing here?” He held fast to the door handle, not moving from the doorway.

“Why wouldn’t I be here? This is your grand collection of memories.” She looked around. “And this place in particular is where all your fond memories go. Don’t you recognize it? This house?”

“Our old house…” he looked around fondly. “Before we moved to London.”

“That’s right, James,” she was happy, artificially so.

James backed out of the room, shutting the door behind him, the violin music still playing. He turned and opened the other door, revealing to himself a room that mirrored the second floor of the 221B Baker Street flat. Inside was Sherlock, back turned to James, playing his violin. Socrates lay by the arm chairs, wagging his tail.

“Mista Sherlock!” James beamed, going further into the room to embrace his old friend.

However, Sherlock ceased playing, turned on James and kept the distance between them by stopping James with his violin bow.

“Mista Sherlock, it’s me!” James was hurt, shocked even. “It’s James!”

Sherlock fixed him with a stern glare, marching James back towards the door at the end of his bow. “A mind palace is not a toy, James. It is a tool.”

“But-…!”

“Play with fire long enough and you most certainly get burned.”

James found himself pushed back into the hall. “Mista Sherlock, please!”

The door slammed in his face.

James came out of his mind palace with a start, heart racing in his chest, gasping air into his lungs. He looked around; he was still in the dark car, still driving to who-knows-where; Moran was still asleep, and it appeared Moriarty was asleep now as well. Confused and admittedly a bit lonely, James curled up in his seat and cried silently, tears streaming down his face. He hadn’t realized just how much he missed Sherlock until he had seen him again, even if it was only a figment of his imagination. James missed his gentle console, his quiet company, his childish habits. He missed his smile and his piercing eyes and his messy hair. He missed the deep way in which he cared for James, even if he never came out and said he did. He missed his deep laugh and his subtle sense of humor and the way he ruffled James’ hair when he wanted to express fondness.

James wished he could say that there was no doubt in his mind Sherlock was out looking for him, and wanting him back. Because there was doubt, and loads of it. Seeds of doubt were constantly being sowed by Moriarty and by James himself, and with each passing day they grew more present and more entangling in James’ mind. The doubt caused him so much pain that James was tempted to stop wanting to return altogether. For now, he endured the pain, kept wishing to be found and go home.

For now, he could bite his lip and hold his ground.

But not for much longer.


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock was absolutely livid with his brother. He had gone to Mycroft expecting him to want to help find James wholeheartedly. Instead, he found his brother to be cleaning his hands of the whole affair, and of James.

“You must understand, dear brother,” Mycroft had lectured. “James was bred for a single purpose: to be another Moriarty. And try as we have to alter that course for him, it’s out of our hands now. With Moriarty, James will become just as Moriarty wills him to be. And it doesn’t matter if we save him and bring him back home; he will be changed, and he will be dangerous. Recover him if you must, Sherlock, but I warn you: don’t fool yourself into thinking he isn’t a threat to be monitored. He will be, and you shouldn’t let your guard down.”

“He’s intelligent, Mycroft,” Sherlock defended. “He won’t conform to Moriarty’s standards if he doesn’t want to!”

“He’s a child Sherlock,” Mycroft corrected. “He’s impressionable, manipulable. Moriarty will have James convinced he _wants_ to conform by the end of the week. Don’t get your hopes up.”

But Sherlock wasn’t content to sit around and let bygones be bygones. The whole affair was highly frustrating for Sherlock. While he was well connected throughout England, he was blind to the rest of Europe; he had to rely on the intelligence of the average person to discover clues, and pray they have the sense to report such things. Lucky for him, a call came in, reporting that the clothes James had been wearing in his reported missing photograph had been discovered in the dresser of a hotel room in Austria.

Sherlock was packed and flying to Austria within the hour, John and Irene tagging along.

____________________________

As soon as they arrived, Sherlock sent John and Irene to collect all the newspapers that had been printed in the past few days. After they left, Sherlock took his time investigating the hotel room in which James’ clothes had been found. Both Sherlock and Irene were able to confirm they were in fact the clothes James had left England in, and that they were in fact his. With that much deduced, Sherlock scoured the hotel room for any other clues or signs that might give him a lead. The room was immaculate, pristine; it was far cleaner than any hotel staff would accomplish. The room had to have been cleaned professionally by someone who knew how to wipe any trace of themselves away.

The only room that hadn’t been cleaned in this fashion was a tiny closet bedroom, the same room in which the clothes were found. Sherlock snooped around. The dresser top was scuffed up, but a few of the marks were fairly new. Sherlock examined them closely; metal on wood contact. The dresser also retained the stench of pricy hair gel. Sherlock moved to the window, running his eyes across the blinds. They hadn’t been dusted, and the dust had been disturbed on one of the slats of the blinds; the impression of a hand, fingers, pulling on the blinds to peak out the window. Sherlock checked the height; it would have been where a small boy could’ve seen out; it was definitely James.

John and Irene returned with the newspapers, which Sherlock went through in the small, cramped room. He didn’t want to leave; knowing that James had been there very recently gave him a sense of company, of comfort.

“There!” Sherlock pointed to the headlines printed in German. “Three men found dead in an alley, all of them known to be involved in illegal activity, two shot and one bludgeoned to death, brain trauma. Their bodies were found the night that Moriarty and James checked out of this hotel room.”

“You think they were involved?” John asked.

“Oh, they were definitely involved.” Sherlock’s eyes scanned through the article, rapidly taking in the details. “The question is, to what extent was _James_ involved.”

They all left the hotel and made their way to a nearby hospital where the bodies were currently being kept. Sherlock asked to see the bodies and was denied multiple times. He returned to his friends quite roughed up.

“They’re not quite as friendly here as Molly Hooper,” he remarked bitterly, pawing at where he had been punched in the face, bleeding a bit.

“Just give me a minute, sweetheart.” Irene went to try her luck. A minute later, the three of them were admitted to the morgue.

Sherlock examined the bodies. The man who had been bludgeoned to death was done so by a heavy, flat, blunt object that was swung at such an angle that only someone taller than him could have achieved. Neither Moriarty nor James fit the credentials to have murdered him. The next two, who had been shot, were much more grim for Sherlock to deduce. These were both shot in the temple, and neither of them exhibited exit wounds in the back of the skull, thus the reason their heads were still intact. By the angles at which the bullets entered the skulls, Sherlock was able to determine the distance the two were from one another, the distance they were from their killer, and the height at which the gun was aimed that delivered the killing blow. The height of their killer was much too short for it to have been Moriarty, and a bit too tall for it to have been Moriarty crouching.

Sherlock left the morgue knowing that James had shot and killed two thugs with expert skill. What he didn’t know was under what circumstances James had found himself that night, and why he shot and killed the two thugs. Sherlock had plenty of theories; these men had been thugs, trained henchmen, and James could’ve been in mortal danger. He could have been protecting himself, or he could have been forced at gunpoint to commit the murders. Sherlock was comfortable with all these explanations, so long as they preserved James’ good nature. What he wasn’t okay with—what disturbed him to think about—was that James made the decision to kill the men without the pressing belief that he needed to do so.

Missy had told him before that James was either a full sociopath or a mild psychopath. With the evidence presented to Sherlock, psychopath was definitely looking more plausible; and mild may be putting it lightly.


	18. Chapter 18

Poland. That’s where they had gone. James had seen the scenery, the people. It all screamed Polish to him. They had stopped briefly at a little store and bought thick winter coats, driving another hour before stopping at a quaint little hotel. James shivered uncontrollably, even in his new coat. It was a blizzard, the fiercely cold wind clawing at James’ cheeks and turning them red. North Poland, James revised. The hotel was powerfully warm, which enveloped James the moment he entered into the lobby. Their room was a penthouse suit, four times larger than their last hotel with three spare bedrooms for them all.

James took the smallest room and unpacked his suitcase into the dresser, getting the feeling they’d be in Poland for a little while. It was late in the evening, and Moran ran out to fetch them some dinner. In the meantime, James took a bath, huddling in the warm water and steam for a long time, exhausted from all the travelling. When he had finished scrubbing himself clean from head to toe, he changed into a t-shirt and boxers, donning the complimentary bathroom he found in the bathroom closet. He came out into the hotel room to find Moran back with Chinese takeout, setting it all out at their small table.

The three of them all ate in absolute silence. James eyed his father, who hand changed into sweatpants and a black, tightfitting t-shirt. His hair had been somewhat ruffled from stripping out of his old clothes, but from the tired look on his face, James guessed he wasn’t overly concerned. Moran was the only one who hadn’t changed, but he didn’t seem to mind. He ate in stony silence. Moriarty leaned heavily on the table with one arm, chin resting in his hand, sprawling in his chair. He picked at the food, not eating. James wasn’t very hungry, but he ate out of habit of doing so to fit in. He noticed Moran eyeing his plate one or twice, and he slid it the sniper’s way, not minding at all as the stern fellow cleaned off the plate.

James got up from the table, going to lock himself in his bedroom; however his movement roused Moriarty from his daze.

“James,” he said, voice thick with exhaustion. “A word? In my room. I’ll be there in a little bit.”

James obediently went to the master bedroom that Moriarty had claimed as his own, sitting on the bed and waiting. A minute later, Moriarty entered, shutting the door behind him and pulling a chair over to face James. James stared into his dark eyes, curious to know what sort of creature lurked behind them. Was it something misunderstood, benevolent yet cursed, or was it something menacing, manipulating, and malevolent? Moriarty was staring at James with the same curiosity. So this was his son, his “pride and joy,” his work of art. He didn’t seem like much in a plain shirt and boxers and bathrobe; he looked as disposable as anyone else. But Moriarty could see the precious diamond trapped behind all the underwhelming stone. All he had to do was excavate it.

“Let’s go to your mind palace, James my boy,” he said quietly, caught up in his meticulous work.

“Why should I?” James raised his chin defiantly, tired of playing ragdoll, determined to reap some benefits from their relationship and reap them now.

Moriarty paused a second, reading his son, seeing the hunger in his eyes and seeing the vulnerability behind that. He toyed with his pride expertly, knowing which strings to tug to make his puppets dance.

“Fine. Forget the mind palace. Let’s just have a chat, shall we? A heart to heart.”

“Fine,” James snapped, fatigue wearing his peacefulness thin. “What do you want from me?”

“Oh James, don’t be so obvious,” Moriarty rolled his eyes. “What have I always wanted from you? Why do you even exist?”

James shifted uncomfortably, not liking to think about his origins, the reason he even existed.

Moriarty presented the answer anyway. “You were created to be my protégé, to be like _me_. You’re just a copy of me, a self-portrait, if you will.”

“But I’m not,” James defended. “I’m not a psychopath like you.”

Moriarty couldn’t help but sneer. “Oh aren’t you? Do you recall what happened, oh what was it, three, four years ago? I _know_ you haven’t forgotten. You, junior, don’t forget.”

James felt panic tighten in his chest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

“Oh, don’t you? Did you think you lay awake night in and night out because I made you comb your hair? Why do you think you’re so angry with yourself, and not anyone else? Don’t you remember what you did?”

James’ face twitched, his mind screaming to shut off his ears, but James wanted to know. He wanted to hear. He wanted the truth.

“What happened?”

Moriarty grinned. “Why don’t you find out for yourself?” He tapped a finger on James’ temple.

James blinked, confused momentarily before he understood: his mind palace; everything was there. Looking reluctantly at Moriarty, then in raw determination, he shut his eyes, focused hard, and threw himself into his mind palace.

He hit the floor hard, landing on his feet and hands. He looked up as a scream flooded the room, seeing the door at the end of the hallway. Moriarty was standing beside him, cutting out patches of an apple with a knife and eating them.

“Don’t you remember what you did? Why don’t you find out for yourself.”

James ran down the hall, slipping and falling flat as the whole room turned, the wall becoming the floor and the other wall the ceiling.  He got back to his feet, making a break for the door again. Once again the hallways spun, but James managed to adjust, keeping on his feet as the room turned completely upside down. Moriarty was still standing and cutting his apple, now upside-down as well. James staggered carefully over to the door, the room tilting and rocking beneath his feet. He grabbed onto the handle and flung the door opening, causing the room to right itself and throw James to the ground.

Dazed, James carefully got to his hands and knees, looking through the door he had opened as he got to his feet. Through the door was a stage, onto which James walked. There was nothing beyond the stage except darkness, darkness that seeped offstage as well. James walked to center stage, beginning to hear voices echoing as if through a PA system. One voice came through clearly: Moriarty’s.

“Ladies and gents, boys and girls, gather ‘round and feast your eyes on a sight so daring it’ll give you nightmares for years to come! Come see the never-before-seen boy-psychopath, my very own _James! Moriarty! Junior!_ ”

James saw a woman walk out onto the stage hands bound and gagged, her makeup a mess as she sobbed and cried hideously. James turned to the other side of the stage to see himself, three-years-old again, wielding a pistol. A big happy smile was painted on his face with makeup, his cheeks caked in a gross amount of pink blush, his hair combed and parted and gelled with great care. The PA system fizzed back to life.

“Let me see you smile! Don’t forget to smile!”

Three-year-old James stuck a big, forced smile on his face, raising his gun at the bound woman opposite of him on stage. She cried and cried and cried. James turned away from his three-year-old self and stared at her. Suddenly, he remembered her. The memory flashed in front of his eyes, temporary replacing the stage memory.

“Please, miss, help me!” three-year-old James was sobbing. “He’s gonna kill my friends!”

She smiled sweetly, a sickly sweet smile full of patronizing amusement. “Don’t worry, darling, you’re not in danger.”

James twitched, another memory flashing briefly in front of his eyes as he did: his own scream, high pitched agony, ripped through his ears, knife pricking his fingers, one by one, sing-song voice, painful tears, nerves on fire, fire burning, choking smoke, laughing, laughing, laughing. Anger; seething, boiling, uncontainable, powerful anger. Hate; unleashed, spiteful, malicious, vengeful hate. The gun fired, ripping through skull, splattering blood and brain and ignorance across the stage. A laugh, James’ laugh; he was laughing, him, now, a wicked, cold, heartless laugh; a relieved laugh, relieved to know the world was more balanced than before, one less idiot suffocating the gifted, one more mistake accounted for.

And then he saw him, and his laugh suffocated in his lungs. Three-year-old James, ghostly pale, unable to look away from the woman whose head he had just exploded, unable to unsee the gore that had been spewed across the stage. The memory was carving itself violently into his vast memory, and the ugly thing was quickly repressed. But it wasn’t gone. It kept James awake at night. It plagued his thoughts and planted guilt where there could not be guilt, and in place of the guilt grew anger and hatred.

“Naughty naughty little James, killing an innocent woman.” Moriarty smirked. “Well, she _wasn’t_ quite so innocent, was she?”

He walked over to the headless corpse staining the stage with blood. “You tried to warn her, you did! You told her you were in danger. But did she listen?” He eyed James expressionlessly, shaking his head. “Nah. Why would she? You were only three years old. What could you possibly know that she didn’t, right? Oops, um, no, no… as I recall, you knew approximately seventeens times more in common knowledge than she did. And that was just _common_ knowledge. Imagine how much smarter you were than her overall!”

James was taking in what Moriarty was saying, processing it carefully.

Moriarty slowly made his way over to James until he was breathing down his neck. “Do you know why you can’t sleep, James? Did you think it was because you were ignorant, gullible, fell into my trap? No. Not at all. It was because _she_ was ignorant, and _she_ caused you sooo…. much…. pain….”

James twitched again. Water, freezing, choking, crushing, suffocating, breath of air, painful, tears, hot and painful, one more breath, choke on the water, numbness, blackness. Blood rushing to the head, brain drowning, screaming for help, stomach exposed, a careful punch, crippling pain, a trapped scream, contorting, twisting, writhing, trapped.

Moriarty leaned his head against James, breath hot as it hissed into James’ ear.

“Murderer.”

James was suddenly receding from the scene into darkness, pulled violently into another scene. He hit the floor. Round room, cushioned walls, no doors. A man curled up to one side of the room. James tried to stand and found his arms restrained, he looked at himself to find a straightjacket restricting his movement. He couldn’t get up, beginning to panic. The man in the corner stood and walked over to James, looking down at him. It was Mycroft, umbrella in hand, wearing his black coat.

“Goodbye, master James. Enjoy your stay.”

“Mycroft!” James voice was a scream. “What am I doing here!?”

Mycroft chuckled good naturedly. “Why, don’t you remember? You went insane. We had to lock you away, don’t you see?” He walked to a door that had appeared in the wall.

“Wait!!” James braced himself against the wall and scrambled to his feet, pursuing Mycroft just to have himself yanked backwards and choked by a chain on the wall shackled around his neck. A scream torn from his chest. “ _Mycroft_!!!”

Mycroft opened the door, pausing a moment to smile a forced smile at James. “It was so good of you to give yourself up to us, master James. It made this whole thing a lot easier.” He motioned to the padded room as he said this. “Perhaps I’ll pay you a visit for the holidays.” And with that, he was gone.

James struggled, thrashed, tried to get free. The more he fought, the thinner he wore on his nerves.  Insanity was swarming his head like a million angry bees. It got so bad, he would have ripped off his own skin to find some relief. Instead, he strangled himself straining at the end of his chain, screaming himself into blackness.

He snapped awake as Moriarty grabbed him by shoulders. They were in some sort of laboratory. James felt like breaking everything in sight to relieve himself of the feeling of constraint that still crawled through his skin, but Moriarty was holding him still.

“Murderer.”

“ _I’m not a murderer_!!” James was screaming his head off, no longer able to keep himself level, no longer wanting to. Years of pent up feelings, watered down and dulled, were suddenly expressing themselves in full color. “ _I am not a psychopath_!!”

“Why do you say that, junior?” Moriarty’s voice was all James could focus on. “Because that’s what your mother told you? And you just blindly trust your mother like that?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” The words came out without the opportunity to be mused over. The moment they came out, James regretted they had. He knew that his question would be answered, and he knew he wouldn’t like the answer, not the least bit.

“Tell me James,” Moriarty mused impishly. “Where did you live before you lived in London?”

“A house,” James said automatically, panic rising in his voice. “In the suburbs. We had neighbors, friends…”

“No James,” Moriarty said, taking on a tone of mock sympathy. “You lived here.”

For the first time, James truly looked at where he was. It was indeed a lab, for of equipment and computers and what appeared to be a cryogenic storage tube full of a strange fluid. His eyes slowly scanned around the room until they came to rest on a room enclosed by glass walls. He could faintly see something inside. James approached, very slowly, the something coming into focus. When James saw clearly what it was, he stopped dead in his tracks, felt the need to vomit sweep over him like hurricane winds.

Inside the glass room was little baby James, no older than two.

Moriarty stood off to the side, talking as he messed with one of the computers.

“Your mother understood you were an experiment, James. You were _my_ experiment, either my protégé or a mistake to be noted and tossed in the trash. She set up this little virtual environment, supposed to nurture you into a perfectly wonderful child. But I didn’t need a perfectly wonderful child, James. I needed my self-portrait to be accurate, life-like. So I gave you a little extra special treatment.”

The TV screen that baby James was watching suddenly changed, going from a mildly stimulating screen of colors to footage of a mass shooting, executions, raids, gang violence, people standing by impassively. James felt himself seized with panic, the images stirring some deep, lost emotions inside him. Moriarty expressed the full horror James was experiencing in a few simple words.

“You couldn’t walk away from _that_ without being a little bit psychopathic. Lucky for me, you walked away being more than just a little bit. A useful amount, at least.”

Moriarty picked up a mirror. “You’re me, James.” He held up the mirror.

James looked into the glass, seeing not his reflection, but that of Moriarty. He panicked, and that Moriarty panicked. He screamed. Moriarty screamed as well. The mirror fell to the ground, smashing into a million pieces.

James blacked out. In the calm of unconsciousness, he hoped he would never wake up again.

But he did.

And he wasn’t the same person.

Not in the slightest.


	19. Part V

Five years of teasers, unsolved cases, and agonizing loneliness passed by for Sherlock Holmes. He hadn’t for a minute ceased his search for James, but as he feared, James ceased leaving clues, and even if he was, no one was finding them. There was a year long hiatus where absolutely no signs of James or Moriarty cropped up. And then the murders started. At first they were dismissible, random killings of random people in random places. But slowly, Sherlock began to note little peculiarities with each new murder. Ironic calling cards, creative causes of death, sometimes even a playful note left at the scene of the crime. Sherlock had once put all these notes together, and realized they spelled out a nursery rhyme:

 _Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall_  
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.  
Four-score Men and Four-score more,

_Could not make Humpty Dumpty how he was before_

Sherlock kept up with the murders. He mapped them and studied them and sometimes investigated the scene of the crimes, trying to find any correlation or pattern that might lead him to James. There was nothing to be found.

Sherlock missed James terribly. He still visited his room at four in the morning, checking to see if he was alright; he always wasn’t, for his absence constantly reminded Sherlock that he was in the hands of the villainous Moriarty. John had tried to comfort him, be there for them, but John had a life he couldn’t neglect for long. Irene was long gone, just up and disappeared one day. Sherlock detested Mycroft, refused to visit him or let him in when he tried to visit. Mycroft acted as if James had never existed, went on with his life like James had been no more than a bump in his road. It disgusted Sherlock, who still clung to the notion that James might one day return, and things would be as if nothing happened. In the meantime, he spent his days moping around Molly Hooper’s lab in Saint Bartholomew’s. Molly tried to cheer him up, but there was no use. Half of a whole was still a half, no matter how you spun it. Sherlock simply wasn’t whole without James anymore.

And then the day came. Springtime, grossly cheery and neither cold nor hot, and with it came new buds and new growth. Sherlock locked himself in his flat, moping. James had always loved springtime more than any other season. The bell rung at the door. Sherlock ignored it. After a few minutes of incessant ringing, Mrs. Hudson made her way huffily out of the door and down to the door, answering. A minute later, Sherlock’s moping was interrupted by a voice he had come to despise.

“How good to see you again, brother mine.”

“Go. Away.” Sherlock snarled.

“You know I would _gladly_ leave you be, but something has come up.”

“I don’t want the case, Mycroft.”

“No case. Just a bit of news.” Mycroft eyed his watch. “My credit card has been charged recently, in several different places in Serbia. Now I was thinking, ‘Who could have my credit card information in Serbia?’ And then I recalled…. I gave James my card years ago, and never got it back.”

Sherlock looked at his, eyes piercing with intense interest.

Mycroft made a reluctant face. “I do believe your little friend is reaching out to you. I assume you’ll want to go after him, no matter what I say…”

“I already know what you have to say, Mycroft,” Sherlock stood, throwing on his scarf and coat. “And I don’t care.”

“I figured as much,” Mycroft sighed heavily. “That’s why I’ve already arranged your flight. There’s a car outside that will take you there.”

Without so much as a thank you, Sherlock rushed down the stairs, out of the flat, and into the car, more than eager to recover James and bring him home. He couldn’t wait to see his warm smile, his messy hair, his curious eyes. The last thing he was expecting was the first thing that greeted him as he arrived in Serbia. Cold smile, smirking; groomed hair, gelled in place; calculating eyes, sporting a devious glint.

“Mista Sherlock. It’s been too long.”


	20. Chapter 20

Sherlock eyed the calm boy as they both enjoyed a spot of tea back in Sherlock’s apartment, Sherlock in his chair and James in the other. Any other time, Sherlock could have overlooked the changes in the boy, who was now twelve years old, but this moment was far too eerily similar to one which Sherlock would not soon forget: the day Moriarty came for tea, spoke with Sherlock, told him his end was coming. There was precious little difference between the psychopath then and his son now, aside from the age gap.

James seemed to be fairly normal, aside from the chilling calm that enveloped him, and the excessive grooming he exhibited. He sipped his tea, smiled politely, and made small talk like any normal person would. But Sherlock wasn’t fooled; there was something lurking in his eyes, something devious and horrible, something that had seized the curiosity that used to sparkle there and held it hostage.

“How have you been, mista Sherlock? It’s been ages.” His voice was cheery, but with an unnerving edge to that cheerfulness.

“I’ve been just fine.” Sherlock answered steadily. “I hear _you_ were up to no good, however.”

“How do you mean?” He smiled a little, voice a tiny bit teasing.

Sherlock’s expression darkened. “So you’re a murderer now.”

At the word “murderer,” the smile disappeared from James’ face, replaced by a glare of disgust; his face twitched, eyes shut, a slow breath, eyes opened, he became calm again.

“You’ve killed innocent people, James. Why?” Sherlock couldn’t keep the anger, the frustration, from oozing into his voice.

James looked at him evenly. “When an ant finds itself beneath your boot, do you question why you step on it?”

“People are not ants, James.”

“Oh aren’t they?” An unsteadiness crept into James’ voice, mixing with the irritation of misunderstanding. “Do people not fall in line, one after the other, blindly following one another to a destination that they do not know? Do people not accept their fate without questioning? Are they not ignorant of the world right underneath their noses, too focused on moving ahead, following the leader, dreaming of bettering their plight with each step? When the boot comes crashing down upon their line, do they not make a fuss—not because some have been crushed, but because they don’t know what to do with themselves without their precious little line?”

Sherlock listened, fingertips folding together and resting on his lips, a thoughtful pose. James sipped his tea again, shutting his eyes and inhaling deeply, opening his eyes once more and exhibiting a smile.

“It is better to look ahead and prepare than to look back and regret,” He quoted calmly.

Sherlock was silent. He was disturbed by this new James who sat in front of him, disturbed by the cancerous ideas that had plagued his mind and deranged his reality. This James, though looking like how he always had, if not a bit more groomed, was only his old self on the outside. On the inside, their dwelled a twisted, corrupted, manipulative person who Sherlock refused to believe could be James. It _had_ to be Moriarty, using James like a puppet to extend his reach. The part that distressed Sherlock the most was the eyes; the eyes are the window to the soul, and these eyes were dark, menacing, malicious.

“It’s been great to catch up with you, mista Sherlock, but I’m afraid we have precious little time left,” sighed James sadly.

“What do you mean?”

“Mycroft knows I’m here, right? That you went and fetched me. He must know. And if he does—since he does—he’ll have sent Scotland Yard after me, looking to lock me up. Stuff all your fears in a box, but that doesn’t mean they’re gone. Out of sight, out of mind, but never _gone_. Always lurking. Always the chance they’ll escape. And if they do, when they do, you better be afraid of the vengeance that has grown hungry in the dark. It’s coming for you.”

Sherlock listened to his delusional ramblings, his menacing metaphors concealing very real threats. He wished there was a way to extract Moriarty’s influence from him, relieve James of the leech on his mind that made him this way. There was no time to find one. Into the flat broke the police force, headed by Lestrade with Sergeant Donavan at his heels. They stopped, confused, as they entered the flat.

“Mista Detective Inspector. Sergeant. How lovely to see you again.”

“James?!” Lestrade was stunned. “What are you doing here?”

Donavan cut in, eyeing Sherlock menacingly. “We were told we’d find a mass murderer here. I don’t suppose that’s you, is it?”

James smiled politely, amused. “No Sergeant, that would be me.” He held out his hands, pressed together at the wrists. Immediately an officer had him in handcuffs.

“You!?” Lestrade and Donavan said simultaneously.

“Yes me,” James smiled calmly. “Funny how the police can’t find a missing child, but a murderer, that really lights the fire under them, gets them going!”

They were speechless as James was marched out of the flat and into one of the police cars waiting in the street. Lestrade was the first to recover, eyeing Sherlock sympathetically as he left the flat.

Sherlock turned to go to his room, pausing a moment to address Donavan. “If you’re still looking for the type of person who would commit crimes just for the sake of creating a case to solve, you’ve just found him.” He nodded down the stairs to where James had left.

Sergeant Donavan watched speechlessly as Sherlock went to his room and shut the door, then slowly made her way back to the team of police cars about to head to the prison. She glanced in one of the cars, seeing James through the back window. He turned and saw her too.

He smiled wickedly.

The look gave Donavan nightmares for weeks.


	21. Chapter 21

It had been a long, tough five years for James Moriarty Junior. Inch by inch, day by day, murder after murder, he lost his sanity, found himself desensitized to violence and to the world in general. He despised people. People were ignorant, arrogant, demeaning, blind fools. He cherished the look on their faces when they finally saw the truth, saw James for as brilliant and powerful as he was, right before he ripped the life from their eyes at the business end of a gun. To die was an art, and James was the artist.

However, with great power came a great price. James was far past insane. His mind palace of horror and trauma had begun to merge with his reality, leaving him hallucinating and delusional whenever his psychosis got out of hand. While calm, collected, he could repress it; once triggered, there was no stopping the insanity. Violence, death, blood, pain, stinging, burning, clawing, ripping, tearing at his mind, this was insanity. It was always there, always pressing at his mind, always trying to escape. Argument, anger, doubt, insults; they all goaded the psychosis, had it press harder on James. The visions flashed, he shut his eyes, collected himself, and came back to reality.

Why now? Why did he reveal himself now? Well, it was simple. For five years he had been proving himself to the rest of the world, earning his place beside Moriarty in his web. He had to tie up all loose ends before he could go the next step further. His loose ends were all back home.

First the open world, and now four walls, concrete, cold, damp; one door, one mirror, one chair. Sitting backwards in the chair, arms resting on the back, chin resting on his arms, he stared into the mirror, knowing there was a pair of eyes looking back from the other side. Mycroft’s eyes. James smirked wickedly. Was he afraid? He should be.

The door opened a minute later, someone entered, the door shut. James didn’t turn around. He heard the sound of a chair unfolding, someone sitting down. Silence.

“Hello James.”

“Hullo, mista Mycroft.”

James leaned back, bending his spine as he pressed his back into the seat of the chair, rolling expertly around, swinging his feet over the chair and ending up sitting properly. He smirked, pleased with himself. Mycroft was still frowning, disturbed. James interlaced his fingers and rested his chin on them, elbows resting on his knees.

“James, I’m here to inform you that your test results have come back.”

“Ooh, how fun! Go on, tell me.”

Mycroft eyed him icily. “Blood tests reveal you’ve recently been under the influence of heroin, otherwise you’re clean. Intelligent score off the charts, as expected. Your psychopathy test claims you to be _highly_ psychopathic.”

James smiled roguishly. “Heroin, eh? I was wondering what that was. Daddy never tells me anything.” He leaned back in his chair, suddenly pouting.

Mycroft was silent, observing him thoroughly. “Now, about the murders.”

Screams, loud deafening, red, flash of light, blood, hot, sticky, sickly sweet. James shut his eyes, breathed in steadily, opened his eyes; the visions were gone.

“What about them?”

“For now, there’s no conclusive evidence that would suggest you’re involved. Keep it that way. As soon as anything crops up, we have no choice but to lock you away. You understand?”

“Crystal clear, mista Mycroft sah!” He saluted, cheered up again, leaning forward eagerly.

Mycroft cut to the chase. “Why are you here James?”

“’Cause I’m mental.”

“No James, why are you back in London?”

“Sherlock came and fetched me here.” He smirked as Mycroft became further annoyed.

“Why did you use my credit card, knowing it would reveal your location after being in hiding for five years?”

“Oh this old thing?” James whipped out the card, rolling it in his fingers possessively. “I don’t know. Call me a romantic, but I thought it was time for an S.O.S. A cry in the dark. A plea for help.”

He paused, reading Mycroft. Fear; stoic, concealed, but there. A fear of what? No, not ‘of’… ‘for.’ He feared for Sherlock, for his safety, because of his attachment to James. A slow, devious smile spread on his face, leaning closer to Mycroft.

“Poor old Mycroft, always looking after his brother, always chasing off the monsters. But what can you do if he brings a monster home? You can’t strip away attachment. He’ll always see what he wants to see in me. How does that make you feel, mista Mycroft? Huh?”

A twitch. James grinned cheekily. “Ooooh, I’ve struck a nerve!”

Mycroft stood, folding the chair and heading for the door. James laughed, and laughed, and laughed; he laughed him out of the room.

In the absence of Mycroft, there was silence. And silence was both a gift and a disease to James. He was left alone with his thoughts. For a while, he schemed with a clear head, taking stock of his situation and weighing all the possible futures that would stem from this moment. But after a while the memories began to put pressure on him again. A sing-song voice, several screams, nails on a chalkboard, fist hits skull, dislocates jaw, raw pain, hot blood, another blow, knuckles raw, breath ragged, drowning music, a false peace, explosives, scorching, ripping, pushing, powerful, a scream, louder, louder, deafeningly loud. _Make it stop!!_

James jumped up from his chair in a panic, clawed back into reality as the chair scraped across the floor, shattering the overwhelming silence. His heart was pounding in his throat, making it hard to breathe. He felt light-headed, a rush of adrenaline making him dizzy and his fingertips tingle. He was still panicked. And then the visions started. Moriarty was pacing the room, circling like a shark.

“Such an _idiot_ of a child, you are,” he sulked. “Never could resist a little fun, no matter how dangerous, no matter how illogical.”

James knew better than to respond. He bit his lip, knowing that if he ignored the visions long enough they would disappear. Sherlock appeared, walking out from behind James.

“You think he would know better, after how we raised him.” Sherlock shook his head.

“Foolish boy!”

“Stupid.”

“Doofus!!”

“Narcissistic.”

“Dumb as a beaten dog!”

“Could’ve been great.”

“ _Ordinary!”_

“ _Ordinary_.”

“ _ORDINARY!!!_ ”

James was clawing at his ears, trying desperately to block out the voices that came from inside his head. His eyes were squeezed shut, a scream was locked up tight in his chest. Moriarty stormed over and pointed a gun at James’ temple, pressing him onto his knees, cocking the gun, _bang!_

He opened his eyes. The visions were gone. He sat back in his chair, pulling his feet up onto the seat and hugging his knees. Burying his face in his knees, he was slowly reduced to tears, shaking from fear, from never-ending trauma.

The world had become a frightening place for James. It was everything he could do to fight back, even if the world screamed “ _Murderer_ ” at him in return.


	22. Chapter 22

     Two weeks crept by anxiously. Sherlock, at first, found himself unaffected by the return and immediate confinement of young James. But as they days ticked by, his mind grew further distracted, thoughts of James tugging at his attention like a nagging gust of wind pulls at a hat. He had asked Mycroft to see him, to speak to him; Mycroft refused Sherlock entirely. Tired of asking permission, Sherlock discovered where James was being held and attempted to see him himself. He was kept out no matter how many times he tried to enter the prison. Eventually, after a week and a half, Mycroft caved in and let Sherlock visit James.

     Sherlock was not permitted to see James in his room of confinement. Instead, he was led to a brightly lit room with a table and two chairs on either side. Sherlock could smell the lingering stench of bleach and a hint of lemon. He deduced this was a room used for interrogation, where blood and information is often spilled, and promptly scrubbed away. The thought that James was even in close proximity to such a place made Sherlock tense with protective anger.

     “You haven’t been torturing the poor kid, have you Mycroft?” Sherlock growled.

“He didn’t have any useful information,” came Mycroft’s vague answer. Catching a vehement look of hate from his brother, he tried to cover up his slip of the tongue. “So what point would there be in torturing him? Besides, he’s a child. We don’t torture _children_.”

Sherlock watched as Mycroft left him alone, examining every inch of the room. Upon finding the hidden camera in the corner by the ceiling, Sherlock easily dismantled it, taking his seat as he waited for James. Despite his calm demeanor, Sherlock was startled by the boy he saw enter the room, led by two guards. This boy looked like he had been recovered from a bar fight. His hands, held together in cuffs, were raw and bloodied and dirtied; his eyes stared at the floor with a dullness that came from restlessness; his face was just as beat as his hands, painted with scratches and scrapes and bruises and blood; he had a pretty nasty black eye; his hair was wild and standing on end, greasy and caked with blood; his clothes were disheveled and dirty and suddenly were too large for him, due to the fact that he hadn’t been eating. James looked even more insane than he had in Sherlock’s apartment, and yet somehow, his horrifying appearance humanized him. He no longer seemed quite so untouchable, delusional, arrogant, calculating. He just seemed like any old delinquent twelve-year-old, beaten and broken, but still just a kid.

James was marched into the room, dragging his feet on the floor, scuffing up his already ruined shoes. The guards placed him in the middle of the room, left his hands bound, and shut the door behind them, locking it. James didn’t look up; he didn’t move; he just swayed a bit and breathed steadily, a quiet sound heard in the silence of the room. Sherlock got up, approached him, stood staring at him a minute. And then he hugged him. He hugged him like he never planned to let go. James tensed at the contact. Then he relaxed. Then he leaned against the detective, too exhausted to stand on his own. And then he cried.

Sherlock was relieved beyond belief. Because if James could cry, then he was still James. At least a little bit. And if he could feel, then there was hope for him yet. Sherlock rested his forehead on James’ grimy hair, taking comfort in the familiar pose. After a long minute, Sherlock slowly released James from his grasp. He grabbed both of the chairs and moved them into the center of the room, placing them like the armchairs at his flat were arranged. Sherlock sat in his chair, and slowly, James sat down as well. There was further silence between them. Sherlock was overjoyed to see a little bit of James, even if it was a sad bit, and Sherlock was angry, angry because his brother refused to believe James could be saved, and so he damned him. James sat still, feet tucked up under the chair, hands folded in his lap, head bowed, hair somewhat hiding his face. His hands shook rather noticeably, something James had lost control over. Sherlock noted the further damage done to him. His ears were black and blue, caked in blood. His hair presented indents where fingers gripped regularly. He was flinching every sound that broke through the silence, even the soft clicking made every now and again by the florescent lights.

It was plain as day what it all meant, at least to Sherlock: James was hearing voices, terrible, tormenting voices that he tried desperately to block out. It didn’t necessarily mean he was psychotic; people could hear voices because of insomnia, trauma, abuse, even extreme hunger. The real problem was the fact that hearing voices could cause whatever amount of psychosis that had developed to compound, grow. Sherlock realized that James would only become further and further out of reach unless someone was willing to work with him, care for him, make him feel human again.

“I’m going to get you out of here James,” Sherlock’s voice was somewhat strangled by emotion.

James didn’t answer, but he raised his head slightly, eyeing Sherlock with unsettling intensity.

“Whatever they’ve done to you, I’ll make them pay.” Sherlock meant every word.

James stared a moment longer, eyes suddenly softening and filling with tears as he looked back down again.

“You don’t get it,” he sobbed. “You just don’t get it…”

All too soon, Sherlock’s time with James was over. The guards returned, hauling James out of his chair. James refused to stand, and so he was dragged back to his cell, heels scraping the floor. Sherlock could hear the sound as it faded away down the hall. He barely took note of Mycroft, who had been there since the guards returned.

“Take my advice for once, little brother,” he said distastefully. “Stay away from that child. For your own sake.”

Sherlock left without another word, returning home. He moped around, deep in thought for the next few days. What didn’t he get? What had James meant? The two week mark hit. It was late in the evening; Sherlock was donning his coat and scarf, ready to return and see James again, when his phone rang. It was Mycroft. He frowned, answering.

“What is it?”

“Don’t bother coming in today,” Mycroft sounded a tad bit distressed, which meant he was very, very troubled. “He’s gone.”

“Gone…?”

“Yes, Sherlock. Gone.” The line disconnected.

____________________________

“Anything?” Sherlock was practically out of breath.

“Nothing,” replied John, equally as winded on the other end of the call.

“Let me know if you find anything.” Sherlock hung up, walking briskly down the street, eyes seeing everything as he dialed Mary’s number.

“Mary? Has James showed up there?”

“No, he hasn’t,” came her worried voice. “If he comes by, you’ll be the first to know.”

Next he called Mrs. Hudson. “James hasn’t dropped by there, has he?”

“No, I’m afraid not, dear,” she said, voice burdened with worry.

Sherlock hung up once more. He had been out all night looking for James, enlisting the help of his dear friend John Watson. He had all their friends on the lookout for the boy; Sherlock had a hunch James would seek refuge with one of them. Sherlock’s homeless network were all keeping their eyes peeled for James, but none of them had seen anything. As morning fast approached, Sherlock grew intensely worried.

He was headed to the final place he could think to look: Saint Bartholomew’s. He went to Molly’s lab, hoping beyond hope that James would be there, perched in his corner chair, jotting down notes as Sherlock experimented. He threw open the door to the lab. Inside it was dark, cold, and most depressing of all, empty. Sherlock felt a weight crushing his chest. He didn’t know what it was. Some sort of fear, but a fear based in affection; it was crippling. Desperately, he combed through the lab, speculating that James may have left some sort of clue, a scent for Sherlock to pick up and follow. He was so busy poking around that he didn’t see Molly as she came in.

“Sherlock?” She sounded tired. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s James.” He didn’t realize how panicked he sounded. “He’s gone missing.”

“Oh, no, he hasn’t. I mean-… if he has, he isn’t anymore, he-… you, see-….”

Sherlock looked at Molly, feeling somewhat lightheaded with hope. “What do you mean!?”

She smiled awkwardly, laughing a bit. “He’s with me. Well, back at my place. He showed up in the middle of the night looking awful, just awful. I took him in, got him patched up, fed him well, gave him the bed to sleep in…”

Sherlock shoulders relaxed, his heart rate slowed as his breathing became steady. “So he’s safe.”

She was trying to read his expression, perplexed. “I could go back and get him, if you’d like…”

Sherlock came to, looking at her again. “No. No, no! That’s fine. He’s fine. Just-…. If he does end up leaving, let me know.”

He headed for the door, pausing a moment to look back at her, smiling a bit lopsidedly. “You really are a life saver, Molly Hooper.”

She blushed, looking away. When she looked back up, he was gone.


	23. Chapter 23

It was a strange feeling for James, waking up. He hadn’t slept in so long, the feeling had become foreign to him, unnatural even. He had come conscious hours ago, but he continued to lay in bed, discombobulated, floating in and out of reality. With the sun peeking through the bedroom windows, James was able to come fully awake. He sat up, looking around, feeling strangely okay. It had been a long time since he felt anything close to okay.

For a minute, James forgot all about the past two weeks, he forgot all about the confinement, Mycroft’s betrayal, the voices, the hallucinations, the self-mutilation, the clever escape, going to Molly Hooper for help. For a minute, James was finally carefree, a kid again, plain and simple. But then the minute ticked past; he remembered everything; he was haunted once more, burdened.

Still a little disoriented, James stayed sitting a while longer. He listened to the sound of traffic outside, honking horns, guzzling engines, police sirens. The background noise was a precious as diamonds to James; it kept the silence from suffocating him, kept the voices at bay. Savoring the sanity that flushed through his mind like the returned color on his cheeks, James smiled. He got out of the bed, taking a minute to stretch out stiffness from his limbs, remembering to do his routine exercises to keep himself in shape, per Moran’s request. Finally feeling ready to face the day, James sucked in a deep breath that puffed out his chest, let the air back out, and exited the bedroom.

Wandering about the apartment, James came across the kitchen. Molly had left him a note, her handwriting as bubbly and awkward as she:

_James,_

_Gone into work. Feel free to help yourself to whatever food you can find. I left out the TV guide if you want to watch something. There’s a phone in the living room. If you need to, call me. Be back at 8 with dinner._

James held the note, reading it over and over as he wandered the kitchen, finding himself some cereal and taking the box with him around the apartment. He pocked the note, realizing for the first time he was in different clothes than he recalled arriving in. Then he remembered: Molly had given him a pair of old sweatpants she had long outgrown and a small sweatshirt that was quite oversized for James. He looked down at himself, seeing his bare feet and wiggling his toes, smiling in amusement. He also took note of the bandages on his face and hands, which had escaped his detection. His hands were wrapped up like a boxer’s, his face speckled with band-aids, and there was a patch of gauze taped to his cheek where a sizable gash was. His black eye wasn’t nearly as shut as it had been. But his injuries didn’t bother him; he was elated to be free again.

Bored. It was the first feeling that interrupted his blissful happiness. He scoured the place for something to occupy his demanding mind. TV? No, too meaningless, too dumb. Pillow fort? As great as an idea as it was, James found the apartment to be rather lacking in the amount of pillows needed for a proper pillow fort. Instead, he found her bookcase, chaotically filled with text books and romance novels. Sitting on the floor beside it, James pulled out one of the textbooks and began to read it. For him, reading textbooks was far too simple to properly engage his mind; you might as well be giving a book of the ABCs to an adult. For him, books needed to puzzle him, discuss concepts that he had little or no grasp of, really strain him to learn. To James, struggling to grasp material was an outlet for stress.

“What’s that you’re reading?”

James didn’t look up. “Organic Chemistry, Fifth Edition.”

“How is it?”

James shrugged. “It’s alright I guess. Nothing too shocking about it. Nothing too hard to understand.”

“That’s a disappointment.”

“Yeah, it really is…” James looked up, flashing a smile at Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled back, standing in the center of the room. “What will you read next?”

James looked at the bookshelf. “Physical Chemistry for Biochemists, Fourth Edition, probably.”

“Oh that one’s pretty good.”

“Is it? I usually don’t read chemistry books by themselves; I usually read forensics books. And a good horror novel every now and again.”

A different voice responded. “You shouldn’t be _wasting_ your time!”

James was shocked, looking up to see Moriarty where Sherlock had been a moment ago. Moriarty grinned wickedly, a scream ripping through James’ ears. He covered them immediately, shutting his eyes in pain and panic, heart racing out of control. The scream died off, he opened his eyes; there was no one else in the apartment. There had _never_ been anyone else.

James was not surprised, burying his nose back in the chemistry book and focusing intently on reading. This thing happened to him more often than he cared to admit, seeing things, people, scenes, that weren’t actually there. They occurred more frequently when he was engulfed in his psychosis, but they were independent from the psychosis. This was his mind palace attempting to merge with his reality. Memories, people, they all showed up in his real world and haunted him. Thus the screams that deafened his ears from inside his head, the random appearances made by Sherlock, Moriarty, Mycroft, his mother….

“Hey there James, hungry at all?”

James looked up, baffled. He was completely engrossed in one of the textbooks, a pile of the ones he had already read through laying at his feet. Standing there was Molly Hooper, holding a bag of takeout. James felt his heart flutter with panic; he didn’t know if this was indeed Molly, or just his imagination baiting him again.

“James? You okay?” She frowned as he stared without a word.

Blinking several times, James shook himself free of the panic. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

He set down the book, dog-earing the page, getting to his feet. He was extremely stiff, having been sitting there for several hours without realizing. He stretched, exposing his belly between the low-resting sweatpants and oversized sweatshirt. His ribs were clear as day, shifting beneath his skin. His stomach was flat, characterized only by faint abdominal muscles that flexed as he stretched. Molly felt nothing but concern for the overly skinny pre-teen, setting out the takeout at the kitchen table. She sat down across from James, eating as she reviewed papers and books from work. At first, James didn’t feel hungry. But he ate to be polite, and discovered he had a ravaging appetite. There was nothing leftover at the end of the meal. Molly smiled at him, his bandaged up face.

“Feeling better today, I see.”  
James smiled, really truly smiled. “Much better.”

Molly smiled back, growing serious a second. “Sorry to ask, but-…. why me, James? Why would you come to me and not someone like Sherlock, or the Watson’s?”

James looked down, shifting in his chair. Nails on a chalkboard, scratching, screeching, setting fire to his nerves. He shivered, the memories receding.

“Because they’re not you, Ms. Molly,” he sighed, pressing his wrists into his eyes, drained, anxious. “You understand.”

“What? What do I understand?” She laughed a little. “What could _I_ possible understand that Sherlock doesn’t?”

James’ voice grew rather quiet. “Pain….”

Suddenly, Molly wasn’t laughing. She took one look at the tortured soul, the boy who had endured so much for the people he loved as well as the people he didn’t, and she realized just how much he needed help. And not just help recovering from his past, but help ensuring he didn’t rob himself of a future. She stood up briskly, going over to him and hugging him tightly. James rested his forehead on her shoulder, too mentally exhausted and defeated to hold his head high.

“Look at me James,” Molly said sternly as she pulled away. His battered face looked up, eyes troubled, cold. “Whatever you need, whenever you need it, no matter what, I’m here for you. We _all_ are: me, Sherlock, John and Mary Watson, Mrs. Hudson… And don’t you _dare_ do anything foolish, you here? You come straight here and you talk it out with me. Got it?”

James looked at her, a slight frown narrowing his eyes. He searched her face, reading fear in his sincerity and affection. He didn’t like that fear.

“James, do you promise?” He heard the fear grow more present in her voice, read it more clearly.

“Promise.” He replied calmly, quietly. James had broken many promises before. One more promise made just meant one more he would break.


	24. Chapter 24

As much as James would have liked to have stayed at Molly Hooper’s apartment forever, he had a timetable to keep, and his time in London was fast approaching its end. He spent three days at Molly’s, relishing in the feeling of living normally again. But he couldn’t fully enjoy it; the hallucinations became more frequent and more violent the longer he turned a blind eye to his insanity. By the third day, the hallucinations were unbearable for James. Too bright, too loud, too horrific, too unrelenting, too personal. When Molly returned from work that night, she found James had up and disappeared, and she phoned Sherlock immediately. And immediately, Sherlock took up the hunt once more.

James had instructions. He had an ultimatum. He knew he was being watched, being scrutinized; someone was deciding whether or not a bullet should take up residence in his brain or stay sleeping in the barrel of a gun. James wondered if the man with the gun was Moran; he wondered if he would really shoot James, should things come down to it. But James couldn’t spare any of his working memory on such trivial questions; he needed every last bit of it to accomplish his task and remain undetected. A homeless network as vast as Sherlock’s was not an easy thing to avoid. James found himself ducking through back alleys, scaling fire escapes, and zig-zagging across London to be invisible to the likes of Sherlock. What he failed to attempt to avoid was anyone else. And this was his near fatal mistake.

James was walking down a small street, darkened by broken streetlamps, when he ran smack into someone. He tried to play it off, just keep on walking, but they snagged him by the hood of his sweatshirt. James whirled around, ready to fight for his life.

“You’re that James kid aren’t you? How’d you get out of prison!?” It was Sergeant Donavan.

James took one look at her and saw everything he needed. In one fluid movement, he pulled himself out of the sweatshirt, threw it into her face, grabbed a hold of the gun she kept poorly concealed, and had her at gunpoint the instant she pulled the sweatshirt away from her face. The look of shock that came over her was like candy to James; he smirked arrogantly, relishing her all too human ignorance. James watched her struggle to find the words to say. Would she yell, angry? Would she plead, whine, cry? Would she try to talk him out of it, try to convince him not to kill her? James didn’t have the time to wait and find out. He was on a timetable. He had an ultimatum.

“Too bad you won’t have the chance to convince everyone how _evil_ and _dangerous_ I am,” James sneered, feeling the thrill of power-over-life surging through his blood. “You’re oh so good at that, aren’t you? Convincing people to believe the hard truth? It’s a pity really. Your friends could’ve really used the truth about me.”

He shot her in the chest, the bullet flaying through her heart and lung, crushing past ribs, ripping through muscle. The blood immediately began to gush like a waterfall, as unmajestic as a bird scrambling to take flight. The blood started to bubble into her mouth, giving her a scarlet smile. It painted everything, contrasting beautiful bright shades of red with dark, brooding crimsons. Within a moment, her feet would not hold her any longer; she was floating, falling, dying, speeding towards the pavement and her end. This dance of death, this symphony of blood, this poetry of dying breaths: this was what James now lived for, for this beauty that was the naïve human soul released unto the heavens, freed from its burdens of flesh and blood and stupidity. 

Sergeant Donavan fell to the ground, her last moments of life tainted by pain and agony. With one last breath, one last struggle of the chest, her body went limp, still, lifeless. The dance came to a close, the symphony held its last fading note, the poetry rhymed its last couplet.

Humming the tune of Beethoven’s _Adelaide_ to himself, James dipped his hands eloquently in the growing pool of blood surrounding the Sergeant’s body, taking the time to paint the words “DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES” onto the sidewalk, and the word ”LIAR” onto the Sergeant’s forehead. Smiling with satisfaction—a giddy, boyish feeling—James slipped his now bloodied sweatshirt back on, slicked his hair back with his blood on his hands, pocketed the Sergeant’s gun, and continued on his way.

This was who James was, who had been made to be. He killed because killing was beautiful; it was a justice so absolute and philosophical that the human race—those ignorant, blind, cancerous beings—confused it as a crime. James felt himself blessed that he had been born all-seeing, able to stare into the light without shrinking away in preference to the dark, as everyone else did. At first, he had wished people understood; he wished they didn’t condemn him so easily, deafen themselves to the truth. But little by little, he found amusement in their horror, in their indignation, in their incomplete view of death, just as one might find amusement in watching ants go about their lives, unaware of the greater world around them. James enjoyed power, he enjoyed being above everyone else. Power was his cancer, his Achilles heel, his pressure point; give him power and James gives his loyalty; match his power and James is blinded by jealousy; surpass his power and James goes into denial. This was how his father was as well; James knew this about Moriarty, used it to his advantage, but he failed to realize it in himself.

As he hurried down the street, James could hear the moments tick by. Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick. Every moment a moment closer to success, or to failure. Every moment one less moment to capitalize on. Every moment one less moment he had the chance to tell Sherlock how sorry he was. Because James was sorry; he was sorry for everything he had become, everything he had done. But regret wasn’t in James’ nature; arrogance was. And so James adapted, conformed, accepted himself and continued down the path laid before him. For James, regrets were things left for dreams and nightmares; dreaming is the only time acceptable for wishing the past had been different.

James came upon the abandoned warehouse from his childhood, where he had first met his father and spent a grueling week under his thumb. He paused, staring. He flinched, hands reflexively jolting towards his ears; the screams, the scratches, the pain, the tears came flooding back to him in one painful wave of memory. Drowning in the sounds, he made his way towards the place despite all his senses begging him not to. This was the place. He was told to go here. He _had_ to go here.

There was no clear way to enter the warehouse. The only door was a large industrial garage door, which was shut and had no plausible way to open it. James paced around the building, scanning every nook and cranny and surface until he came across a broken window, two stories up.  James was able to climb onto a dumpster, finding enough footholds in the old brick walls to make it up to the window. Once through, however, there was no safe way to get down. The window was one that overlooked a several-story hallway, revealing to James the two-story drop that greeted him upon entry. James remained perched in the window frame for quite some time, trying to come up with a plan to get down into the warehouse with minimal damage. The floor below was concrete, providing James absolutely no give if he were to land on it. The entire force of his fall would be met with an equal force from the floor that would cripple his body. However, there was nothing that James could jump to, nothing he could grab a hold of in the air, nothing but a two-story drop to a concrete floor, and the grim choice to back out and be shot. With an agonized sigh, screams still haunting his head and crippling his mind, James grabbed a hold of the window ledge and lowered himself until he was hanging from the window, dangling inside the warehouse. He shut his eyes and let go.

The pain immediately seized his legs, causing him to fall over onto his hands and knees. His legs were screaming from the impact, numb and immobile. James remained how he had fallen for quite some time, recovering the usefulness of his legs and slowly getting to his feet. It was painful; his knees felt like someone had stabbed them with a hundred knives, and his ankles didn’t feel much better. Slowly, carefully, he limped to the center of the warehouse, back by the industrial garage door.  He looked around, remembering how he and Sherlock had stood there over eight years ago, cornered by Moriarty and Moran. James could feel the gun pointed at his skull, the headache that had engulfed his head, the warm blood that had soaked his hair.

James was so caught up in his memories of the place that he barely heard the sound of quiet, cat-like footsteps as they grew closer and closer. He did notice, however, when the sounds came to a sudden halt. James felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, and he whirled around, not prepared for what he saw next. His heart skipped a beat. His voice was straggled in his throat. His eyes widened with wonder and horror. He saw the same symptoms reflected in the person who there, staring back at James. In fact, he saw a great many things reflected back at him; dark hair, cold eyes, an air of sophistication marred by blood staining their clothes. There were a few differences, subtle yet important. This other person was somewhat taller, probably older than James; this person’s face was void of freckles, while James was dotted with them on and around his nose; this person had eyes an intense icy blue that seemed oddly familiar, while James had the same smoky grey eyes of his mother.

“Who are you?” James heard his voice demand coldly, calmly.

Like an echo, the cold and calm came back to him in the other’s voice, deeper than James’.

“My name is James Moriarty Junior.”


	25. Chapter 25

“What do you mean you’re James Moriarty Junior!? _I’m_ James Moriarty Junior!”

James was freaking out, but this other James didn’t seemed fazed, shrugging his shoulders.

“Guess we both are then. It’s cool. People call me Jay, anyways.”

“What are you doing here?”

“An assignment from the old man. Said it was come here or die, so I came here.”

“Same….” James calmed down, his anger and confusion diluted by Jay’s relaxed demeanor.

“Is the other one here yet?” Jay walked over to stand with James.

James couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “There’s another one…!?”

Jay snorted in dry laughter. “Yeah there is: the runt. He’s nothing special, but he’s one of us, so he got the ultimatum too.”

James’ mind was racing. “What does Moriarty want, sending us all here? Does he expect us to fight until there’s only one James Moriarty Junior left?”

James eyed his half-brother warily, noting the extreme difference two years caused. Jay was fourteen, nearly fifteen, and he had the deepened voice, increased height, and muscular build to prove it. And from the look in his eye, James could deduce that he wasn’t one to be outwitted.

Jay ran a hand through his hair—which was gelled upwards—before crossing his arms over his chest, looking down and shrugging again. “Maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s why we’re here. Honestly though, I wouldn’t go for that sort of thing. Doesn’t matter if they old man commands it or not, I still won’t do it.”

James was relieved and perplexed all at once. “Really…?”

Jay smiled a bit. “Yeah. You seem like a pretty smart guy. And judging from the fact that you’re covered in a woman’s blood and are armed with a handgun, I wouldn’t want to take my chances with the likes of you.”

“You’re not a murderer, too, then…? Or a psychopath?”

Jay snorted contemptuously. “Oh please. Of course I’m a murderer, as you put so distastefully. Had to murder someone on the way over here, in fact. But psychopath, sociopath, who cares? I don’t think too hard about what sort of labels society might give me. All I know is that I’m me, and I’m pretty damn sharp. And that’s all I _need_ to know.”

Needless to say, James was further surprised by this mysterious other James that had suddenly become a part of his world. For James had always lived his life surrounded by labels: sociopath, protégée, friend, experiment, psychopath, murderer; these had defined him throughout his life. To think that he could define _himself_ was a completely new concept to James.

A while of silence passed between the two of them. James paced, deep and thought; Jay paced as well, though he seemed to just be biding his time. James was thinking about everything Jay had said, combing through his words and spending time on each one, weighing them, deciphering them, interrupting them. He reached the point where he recalled how Jay mentioned there was another of Moriarty’s sons given the ultimatum; another brother to James.

“Jay, what’s this other boy like..?” James piped up.

Jay sounded disgusted. “Don’t bother, kid. He’s not gonna make it. I told you, he’s nothing special. He’s the runt.”

James paused, suddenly resolute on a single, crazy idea. Jay caught the look, the stubborn, unyielding look that he, too, exhibited every now and again. It made Jay frown in annoyance.

“Oh come on, don’t tell me you’re going after him.”

“I want him to make it.”

“For Christ’s sake!”

“I’m going to make sure he bloody well makes it!”

James walked off, determined to find another way out, somewhere he could reach. There had to be somewhere, for Jay didn’t get in using the same window as James. He ran into a wall, turned around, walked somewhere else, ran into another dead-end, did it all over again. He growled in frustration, not knowing where to go.

“May I suggest this window?”

James looked up at his brother, saw the window he mentioned. It was not nearly as high as the one with which James entered the warehouse, but it was still far out of reach.

“You give me a boost and I’ll pull you up.” Jay commanded indifferently.

James sighed, giving up his stubbornness in exchange for some progress. He went over to the window, lacing his fingers together and pulling upwards while Jay stepped into his hands. He watched as Jay grabbed a hold of the window ledge, muscles in his arms bulging and rippling as he pulled the rest of his body up. He crouched in the window ledge, balancing skillfully and reaching both hands down to James. James took a hold of them, feeling himself hoisted up as Jay leaned back and fell through the window. James caught himself with his feet on the edge of the window, staring in surprise at his brother who now had his feet on the wall.

“Hold tight there.” Jay smirked.

He walked his feet down the wall until he was standing on solid ground, James leaning precariously out the window. He let go of Jay the moment he touched the ground and jumped, landing with much less force than he had entering the warehouse the first time. Brushing himself off, he couldn’t help but smile smugly at his brother. Jay was smirking back.

“Not bad,” Jay laughed.

“You’re half decent yourself.”

“Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to find our brother and get back _before_ our heads get blasted off.”

“Me too. Let’s go.”

____________________________

James was in his element running around the dark streets of London, death sentence ticking nearer, adrenaline surging. Jay ran much faster, much more gracefully; it was hard for James to keep up. It suddenly became abundantly clear that they were getting nowhere in their search for their bother.

“He could be anywhere…!” James panted.

“No,” Jay corrected. “Based on the amount of time we’ve had the ultimatum and the distance from which he had to travel, taking into account his inherent slowness of the body and mind, there’s a five mile radius around the warehouse in which he can be found.”

James weighed this deduction and found it reasonable. “Alright. You go left, I’ll go right?”

“Deal. Watch out for the rats.” Jay meant the people aware of the price on their heads, the people who would stop at nothing to have James, Jay, and their other brother dead in the ground before they could get to the safety of the warehouse.

They split ways, running like there was no tomorrow; because really there wasn’t, if they didn’t hurry up and return back to the warehouse in time. James was taking in everything. Finding someone wasn’t very hard so late at night, when the only people on the streets were homeless, thugs, and one lonely brother. James paused, ducking into a system of alleyways. He checked the time, sped up his pace.

Within twenty minutes, James came across what he was looking for. Four men were harassing a small boy, concealed by the shadows that engulfed the back alleys of London. James felt it in his gut; this was his brother. Wasting no time, James whipped out the pistol he had taken from Donavan and shot the man whose fists were yanking on the boy’s shirt. The gunshot echoed violently in the small alley, and there was a dull thud as the bullet buried itself into the man’s gut. James immediately had everyone’s attention, and it rapidly became apparent that was a bad thing. One thug approached James menacingly, rage burning in his eyes. James pointed the gun and shot, but the gun had been emptied; James was defenseless.

One hand reached viciously to grab a hold of James while the other swung at his head. James ducked and threw himself back, avoiding both hands but causing himself to become off-balance. The man’s second attempt left James tripping backwards and falling to the ground. James rolled out of the way as a boot came crashing down towards his face. He was panicked, trapped, becoming backed into having no escape. He shut his eyes as he saw the boot come swinging at him. But there was no contact. Instead, there were muffled cries of pain, fist breaking ribs.

Jay had shown up, and he was ready for a fight. Arms tucked tightly into his body, his fists shot out and cracked ribs, then a nose, then smashed into skull, bringing the man to the ground, out cold. The next thug was upon Jay the instant the other was taken down, smashing his big meaty fist into Jay’s face. The teen wasn’t at all fazed, blood gushing from his nose as he threw a powerful kick at the back of the man’s knees, causing him to collapse. In one swift movement, with a sickening crunch, Jay twisted the man’s head violently and snapped his spine. In this time, James had gotten to his feet and had gone to their brother’s rescue. Wielding the empty gun, James swung it upwards, knocking against the man’s chin and sending his head flying back. James swung the gun with all the power he could muster at the man’s kidneys, delivering a powerful, crippling blow. The man writhed on the ground, crying out in pain. James and his new brother were both staring in shock at the ghastly sounds the man made as Jay walked over, wiping blood from his nose on his sleeve.

“Give me the gun,” he said calmly to James.

James handed it over in sort of a stupor. Without hesitation, Jay held the gun by the barrel and sent the handle crashing down into the man’s skull, killing him instantly, blood oozing the from hole in the man’s head plugged up by the gun. The sight was horrific and sickening, but James felt himself seized by a cold indifference as he remembered who these men were, and who they had been harassing. James took one look at Jay and could tell he felt absolutely nothing. Looking at their brother, however, James could see he was quite shaken.

“You alright…?” James asked, checking him briefly for any sign of injury.

The boy was much different than James and Jay, not quite so similar, but still quite clearly their brother. He was much younger than them, too; he seemed to be about seven or eight years old, maybe nine. It was hard to tell because he was so small, so thin. His clothes were much too large and sagged around his ghost of a body. His hair was greasy blonde and overflowing from beneath a newsboy hat. The only truly lifelike characteristic that set him apart from a corpse was his eyes, a bright grey-green that seemed to stare into one’s soul. When he spoke, his voice was raspy, high pitched, and squeaked every now and again, carrying a thick Russian accent. It was a voice that one could easily become attached to, as it was characteristically innocent.

“English,” he said as he eyed James warily, turning to Jay. “And Irish.”

“Try brothers,” Jay remarked dryly.

“Brothers?” came the boy’s confused, rusty voice.

“Yeah,” James couldn’t help but smile. “I’m James Moriarty Junior, and this is James Moriarty Junior, but he goes by Jay. We’re your half-brothers.”

“Oh,” the boy sounded much more relaxed. “My name is Valentin Moriarty. I was told I had to go to this warehouse or die.”

“So were we,” Jay sighed impatiently. “Now, if we could get back before our time’s up, that’d be great. Thanks.”

Valentin looked at him, perplexed. James cut in. “We found the warehouse. Come with us.”

The boy gave each of them one last look before he broke into an innocent, cheery smile. He took a hold of James’ hand as they walked, his own little hand bloodied by the hole in the man who James had shot. James was elated. They had found their brother, who turned out to be as bright and cheery as the sun itself. Jay was still brooding over their success, snapping his broken nose back in place as they walked and wiping away the pouring blood as it became bothersome.

The three Moriarty brothers had tasted their first victory together, and relished in their success. They returned to the warehouse with a few minutes to spare, clambering into the lower of the two broken windows and returning to the center of the warehouse. And there, they waited.

“Shut up,” Jay snapped at Valentin as he began to hum.

Valentin frowned and went quiet. James was too busy pacing and thinking to intervene.

“Time’s up,” came James’ voice as the timer in his mind reached zero.

“What now?” Valentin piped up curiously.

As if to answer his question, the industrial garage door began to creak and groan open. Through it drove a black car with tinted windows, which pulled up beside the three boys. The back door opened. James looked at Jay, who glanced back at him. One look and they both knew they were thinking the same thing. Jay climbed into the car, followed by James who let Valentin climb in first. James got in and shut the door behind him. The car immediately began to drive. They drove in silence, all three minds weighing the possible destination they were bound to reach.


	26. Chapter 26

Sherlock found himself utterly busy for the next year or so. The murders continued to crop up across Europe, becoming more elaborate and more fun to solve. Many of them were staged as accidents, but Sherlock could see the hand of James in all of the deaths. Curiously enough, many murders began to show that didn’t not seem to be the work of James, and yet they were far too cleverly staged for them to be just any old murders. Sherlock perplexed over these murders, that were always much more brutal and physical than any of the murders deduced to be James’. They weren’t entirely similar enough to be murders caused by James, but they were far from being someone else’s. Sherlock pondered over these for months, collecting all the newspaper articles and pinning them to his wall, drawing connections, mapping out where he deduced James was traveling. These brutal murders always coincided with the more James-esque murders of eloquence and mystery, sometimes close by, sometimes along the same path of travel. Lately, however, these murders showed no correlation to any of the murders committed by James, further puzzling Sherlock.

He was officially obsessed. He did little else but eat, sleep, and think about these murders. When local cases cropped up, Sherlock solved them in as little time as he could, immediately returning to his work on the murders. People were bothered by the distinct lack of Sherlock in the London area, especially Lestrade and his force, who mourned the loss of Donavan and wished Sherlock would find her killer. Of course, Sherlock knew it was James. But Sherlock never spoke a word of this truth to anyone. He solved all of James murder mysteries but never informed a soul as to James’ involvement. That was the number one rule of their little game: don’t let the cat out of the bag.

John and Mary had tried countless times to engage Sherlock outside of his flat, inviting him over for dinner, lunch, tea; once they even claimed someone had been murdered in their house to lure Sherlock over. Sometimes, John would go over to Sherlock’s flat and spend time with him there, but even then Sherlock was far too absorbed in his work to engage John very much. The only time he ever fully pried himself away from investigating the murders was when Kate Eloise came over for help on her schoolwork or science projects. Sherlock loved nothing more than to help the ten-year-old. She was a bright girl, sharp as a tack, but while she loved to do experiments with Sherlock and was very good at math, her friends enjoyed playing with dolls and dressing up, so she spent most of her time joining them in their frivolous play.

At the moment, Sherlock was very much intrigued. His pattern had been thrown off. The murders had become irregular over the past few weeks, and suddenly, they stopped. An entire week without so much as a single murder. Sherlock sat musing, staring at the wall as he had been for days. He was rudely interrupted as his phone rang. He planned to ignore it, but something told him that he needed to answer. Checking his phone, the number of the caller wasn’t displaying. Frowning, curious, Sherlock answered the phone.

“Hello?”

There was a tense pause. “Hey mista Sherlock…”

Sherlock nearly dropped the phone in shock, taking a minute to compose himself.

“Hello James.” He knew better than to question him and risk ruining this rare slip-up.

“Are you very busy right now, mista Sherlock? I was thinking we could get fish and chips, like old times…”

“Do you know of a place?”

“It wasn’t easy; Denmark’s not very big on fish and chips. But I found us a little spot. Quiet, quaint, not too many police snooping about…”

Sherlock checked his watch. “I should be able to make some time. How does four o’clock your time sound?”

“Sounds good to me. I’ll save us a table.” He listed off the coordinates of the restaurant and hung up.

It was child’s play for Sherlock to hijack one of Mycroft’s jets and leave London; no one was expecting him to so much as leave his flat.

____________________________

It was far too easy. That’s what made James so nervous. Jay never took anything seriously. Valentin was too optimistic. They didn’t see what James saw. It was far too easy. He felt the cold grip of death tightening around them all.

     It was far too easy.

     The choice had been made, the die had been cast, the ace had been played; they were removing Moriarty from the picture, infiltrating his web, taking it over when possible and destroying it when not. The three brothers knew it wouldn’t be easy, they knew it could mean death for all of them, but they knew most of all that it had to be done. They were not puppets. They were not pawns. They were princes, and they were hell-bent on taking the crown.

     The plan was a year in the making and a month into execution. They had split up, each heading to tackle a different section of the web. James took Europe, Jay took Asia, and Valentin was left to do what he could with Russia. They kept in touch, reported their successes; and it was always successes, for failure meant death. It all was far too easy. People changed up their loyalty like they had nothing to lose.

     “Everyone’s sick of the old man, just like us,” Jay had said confidently.

     But James felt sick. Out of the brothers, he knew their father the best; he knew something wasn’t right. The feeling got worse the day before he called Sherlock. It was the day Valentin stopped responding to texts, fell out of contact. James pleaded with Jay to check up on him, but Jay was neck-deep in Chinese politics and gangs, too invested to pull out. James could budge, either. The Scandinavian web was very particular in their customs, and wouldn’t let James leave until their talks had come to a close, ending in either loyalty to James and his brothers or a bullet in James’ skull.  So James sat in Denmark, awaiting his previous mentor at a remote café. The talks were going well; he could afford to take a day away from the negotiations.

It was far too easy.

James sat in the back table at the café, studying a map that he kept on his person at all times. It was a map depicting Moriarty’s web, all its branches, all its main hubs; it was a map that took James months to put together. Months of tedious listening, watching, learning; agonizing time spent with his increasingly-dreadful father. James reviewed the map, nursing a headache bred from excessive worry. They had taken two of the seven hubs in Asia, four of the ten in Europe, two of the five in Russia, and one of the four in America—James had contacts in this last hub and had managed to turn them to James’ side over the phone. The voices nagged in James’ head: it’s far too easy, it’s a trap, you’re speeding to your death.

The bell on the café door jingled, and James looked up. Tall man, dark coat, collar turned up, messy hair, familiar standoffish gait; it was most definitely Sherlock Holmes. This man scanned the café, saw James; there was a pause, a hesitation, a moment of quick thinking, and then he walked over and sat down across the now teenage boy. They said nothing for a minute, Sherlock ordering himself some tea, James sipping his pensively in the silence. It was finally Sherlock that broke the silence.

“I suppose you missed me. Why else would you call me here?”

“Aren’t you clever, mista Sherlock!” James shook his head, smiling. “Of course I’ve missed you.”

“But you’ve been up to quite a bit of trouble lately, haven’t you?”

James shrugged uninterestedly. “Someone’s got to keep you busy. You and I both know how you get when you’re bored.”

Sherlock eyed the calm boy carefully. James sipped his tea and spoke once more, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“Well you can take a breather, mista Sherlock. Because we’re turned to noble purpose at the moment.”

Sherlock frowned intensely. “We? You and Moriarty?”

James stifled a laugh. “Oh please, spare me your humor. I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out yet.”

“Figured what out?”

“The big _surprise_.” James grinned into his cup of tea.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, folded fingers coming to his lips methodically as he turned to deeper thought. James watched, amusement dancing in his disturbed grey eyes. And suddenly, very suddenly, the amusement was gone, from his eyes, from his face, from his posture. In an instant he was tense, hand reaching towards his back, eyes staring intently, worried, calculating, fixed on something behind Sherlock. Before Sherlock had the opportunity to turn and look, James spoke to him, voice quiet, calm, a little shaky.

“I need you to duck, mista Sherlock.”

“Duck? James, what-”

“Duck!”

Sherlock did as he was told, James immediately standing, whipping out his gun from his holster in his suit, firing three concise, calculated bullets at the men who entered the café. Two of them dropped like flies, but the third pulled a gun and shot several times at James before James’ fourth bullet snuffed the life from him as it passed through his skull. Sherlock jumped up, looking from the men lying dead, to James, and back again. James was clearly frazzled, using his free hand to smooth back his hair, heading quickly for the door and maneuvering through the bodies blocking his exit. Sherlock followed at his heels.

“James, what’s going on!? Who were those men?” Sherlock stayed by the café door; he recognized their uniforms, but he didn’t want to accept the truth.

“The Scandinavian hub is a no go,” James said as he dialed his phone, pacing a distance in front of the café, whirling around in circles as he rapidly tried to formulate some sort of plan, take an action. A panicked look began to fill his normally calm eyes as whomever he was trying to reach failed to pick up.

Sherlock understood. The Scandinavian hub. So Moriarty _had_ in fact rebuilt his web—the web Sherlock had spent two years pretending to be dead in order to tear down. But what was James doing with this web? He clearly wasn’t working with it, because the men had tried to kill him. That’s when Sherlock noted the blood soaking through James’ suit.

“James,” he said, unable to keep the panic from his voice. “You’ve been shot.”

“I know, I know,” James’ voice was raw with anxiety. “It’s nothing. I’m fine. It’s-”

He cut himself short, eyes fixing on something else and turning his entire body ridged. Oddly calm, he slipped his phone in his pocket, cocking his gun slowly. Sherlock turned, and saw exactly who James was seeing.

“You!!” Moriarty screamed, furious as he stormed over to James.

James immediately raised the gun, shakily keeping it pointed at Moriarty’s head. It didn’t faze his father in the slightest. Moriarty was in a hellish rage, eyes blazing, fists clenched, storming over until he was standing only a few feet from James. Sherlock was rooted to the spot by the door of the café, watching, feeling like a spectator, unable to help.

“How _dare_ you try and take over _my_ network!!!” He looked just about ready to strangle the life out of James.

James, on the other hand, looked like a deer in headlights. He stared in wide-eyed horror at the monster that was his father, terrified for his life, not relaxing his grip on his gun for one second. The gun meant nothing to Moriarty. He closed the single-foot gap between him and his son, simultaneously grabbing James’ shirt and his gun arm in one swift advancement. He twisted James’ arm to the point where Sherlock flinched, sure it was snap. James didn’t cry out, but rather had pain mix with the fear in his eyes.

Moriarty was in his face, teeth clenched, eyes burning into James. He managed to take control of his voice, lowering it to a more controlled, concentrated, personal rage.

“Did you and your brothers _really_ think you could just _waltz_ right in and take the reins!?”

James didn’t answer, head starting to swim from the combined pain of his contorting arm and the bullet buried somewhere near his shoulder. Moriarty searched his face, twitching in anger, teeth barred.

“This is _my_ network. And to prove it to you worthless brats, I’ve gone ahead and put a price on your brothers’ heads. They’ll go in for negotiations to find themselves at gunpoint. Pow! Gone! No more! Better yet, I’ve put a pretty little price on _ever last tid-bit_ of information that can be _squeeeeeezed_ out of them. Not that the two of them know much of anything. But won’t it be nice knowing that their deaths will come inch by inch _?”_

James was very clearly mortified, struggling to breathe anymore. Moriarty suddenly turned quite calm, a look of disappointment coming over him, his grip on James’ shirt and arm loosening.

“It’s a shame, really, it is. You were _always_ my favorite, James my boy. You were always so _clever_ , so _perfect_ , so much like _me_. I was going to hand over the network to you eventually! I was! But no, your brothers had to go and _spoil_ that for you, didn’t they? Now no one’s gonna get anything but a slow and agonizing _death_. Oh well. I do like you best, James. So I’ll make your death quick.”

In one skillful movement, Moriarty wrenched the gun from James’ hand to the tune of a snapping wrist, righting the gun in his hand and holding it to James’ skull.

James couldn’t breathe. His mouth hung open in a silent scream of pain. His ears were ringing, drowning out all other sounds. The edge of his vision was becoming dark, fuzzy, as he lost more and more blood every second. Everything blurred from the tears spilling out of his eyes. Moriarty was nothing but a dark silhouette, and the gun was nothing more than a cold touch on the forehead. Something happened; he saw it faintly, didn’t fully register it in the overwhelming pain. The shapes in his vision shifted, changed somehow. He heard a gunshot. Everything went black. Falling. Sirens. Panicked voices, too jumbled to make out their words. Sobbing, uncontrolled sobbing. Falling faster. Sherlock’s voice, distinguishable from the others: “James, you’ve been shot.”

“I know…” James heard himself mumble.

Sherlock’s voice again. “You’ve been up to quite a bit of trouble lately, haven’t you?”

“I know…” James’ voice was fainter; it was more of a struggle to speak than it was worth. “I’m sorry….”

“Stay with us James…” His voice was fading. “Don’t die…”

“I’m sorry…” James echoed, voice stripped from him with the words. Falling. Everything became wonderfully silent, the voices trailing off somewhere distant. James wanted to wave them goodbye, but his arm didn’t move; his body had gone cold, surrounded by damp earth. A bell tolled out in the silence. It tolled: “Don’t die.”

James shut his eyes. They didn’t open again. Falling.

It was far too easy.

Just like dying.


	27. Part VI

“We found the one boy in Russia. Granted, it was not an easy task, pulling him out of there, especially considering the delicate balance we must maintain with the Russians.”

“The boy Mycroft,” Sherlock cut in. “What’s he like?”

“He’s a fairly standard young boy,” Mycroft sighed. “Ten years old, intelligent, cheerful even. He goes by the name Valentin Moriarty, so deduce what you will about his lineage.”

“Any mother in the picture?”

“None. The DNA tests revealed the identity of his mother, and database scans show that she has been dead for eight years. I doubt she was ever really influential in his upbringing. Who was: that’s a completely different and more puzzling question. Because it most certainly wasn’t his father.”

“And what sorts of plans, dearest brother, have you schemed up for this one?”

Mycroft frowned distastefully at his brother. “He performed well on the psychosis test; the results came back positive, but nothing extreme. Perhaps only mild sociopathy. Though Ms. Hooper informs be he’s been preforming deductions like no other since he regained consciousness. Once he’s released from the hospital, the Watson’s have volunteered to take him in for the time being.”

“Hm….” Sherlock was pensive, sitting with his brother in his flat. “And what of the other brother? Moriarty mentioned there were two others apart from James.”

“We located him, for a brief period of time. He was found in China, in the heart of one of its most notorious gangs. However, our resources and influence in China is limited, as you well know brother mine. All traces of him vanished before we could concoct any sort of rescue plan.”

“Is he dead?”

“Unconfirmed. But for a young lad of his age, I would venture to guess so.”

“Hm….”

After a minute of sitting still, lost in thought, Sherlock jumped up from his chair and grabbed his coat and scarf.

“Out to find the last brother?” Mycroft sighed.

“No,” Sherlock corrected as wrapped his scarf and tossed on his coat, collar popped. “I’m going to see James.”

____________________________

It was a long, slow, agonizing process of inching back to life. Death had been so calm, so peaceful. When life jolted back through James’ body, it was more than painful. It was excruciating. Two holes where bullet ripped through his body, shredded muscle, smashed bone; one had disfigured organs, collapses a lung. One was simply a nagging pain, the other the kill shot that had just about done him in, now the source of James’ unbearable pain. For an entire month of faint, flickering, uncertain life, James couldn’t move. There was nowhere to move to. James was comatose, though fully feeling, fully pained. He could feel the knife cut into him, could feel the hands that sought to restore what had been damaged. He could feel the needle piercing skin, over and over and over, when they tried to put him back together again.

 _Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall_  
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.  
Four-score Men and Four-score more,

_Could not make Humpty Dumpty how he was before_

A body was so much easier to restore than a mind. Doctors could cut into a body, shift things around and put them as they should be. A mind is left to heal itself; shattered, the thousands of pieces heal into a contorted, scarred mess. No one had bothered to tend to the wounds of James’ mind when he needed them to, and so it had healed all wrong, become twisted, crazed, psychotic. It would take something mind-shattering to break it all up again, and give James one more chance to put it together correctly. Perhaps that was what this was. Another chance.

After a month, James finally came to full consciousness, or at least the kind that is recognized by doctors. The pain became less unbearable as he was hooked up to a morphine drip. James was blissful with the morphine. Morphine made all the hurt disappear, relieved him of the great burden of agony, but in return robbed James of his clear thinking. For a while it was nice, but James became short-tempered with himself, and he fiddled with his dose, reducing it to almost none. The pain returned in full force, but the pain was real. James liked to know what was real and what wasn’t.

Once James had become awake, Molly Hooper made it a regular occurrence to come and visit him during her lunch break. James couldn’t talk for a while, but Molly didn’t mind. She talked and talked about all sorts of normal things. This soothed James to no end, hearing about normal things. Normal things were the candy James never got to enjoy, the candy father told him would rot his mind. But James secretly loved normal things; normal things meant that everything was alright.

James had a lot of visitors once it was confirmed that he was alive, awake, and stable. James disagreed with that last bit, but the doctors seemed to think they could tell just how stable he was by heartbeat, blood pressure, and other vital signs; James thought they should be checking his head instead.

First to visit, of course, were the Watson’s. They were so panicked over him, so emotionally compromised by the prospect of his death. James was touched. They begged him for details on what happened, once they were assured James was not too traumatically effected. James smiled. No one had told them. James explained it away as an accident, said nothing more. He could almost laugh at the hunger is Mary’s eyes as she longed to know the dark, gory details of it all.

Next to see him was Anderson, who was curious to know where exactly James had been, what he had been up to. James relished in the simplicity that was Anderson’s mind. He wasn’t dull—not really—but he wasn’t very observing. He thought outside of the box, that was for sure, but he was blind to the facts that presented themselves right under his nose. If he had wanted to know where James had been, he could have checked the records, seen that James was transferred to St. Bart’s from a hospital in Denmark. Better yet, he could have gone through James’ belongings, which sat on a counter in the very room James was kept in, and checked his passport, which was overflowing with stamps from all across Europe. Instead, Anderson got the not-so-helpful answer from James:

“I’ve been around. You know, here and there. And now I’m here. That about sums it up.”

The Watson’s and Molly Hooper continued to visit James often, bring him books, get well cards, useless junk James had no use for like balloons and teddy bears and flowers. James thanked them politely while they were visiting, and promptly despised their gifts the moment they left. It was two weeks in to James’ fully-conscious stay at the hospital when a very important guest showed up. It was his brother, Valentin. He came and sat at the foot of James’ bed in silence. James stared at him, noticed the fading scars on his face, the darker pigmentation around one eyes to indicate severe bruising from not too long ago, hair shaggy yet freshly cut, an awkward posture indicating injury. His curious green eyes flickered over James, indicating that he was deducing about James, just as James was about him.

“How was Russia?” James voice was hoarse from disuse.

“Just as I remembered it,” Valentin replied reminiscently, his Russian accent that had all but disappeared over the past year having returned from his time back home. “Beautiful and heartless.”

James couldn’t help but laugh a bit. “That sounds lovely, Tin.”

Valentin smiled sheepishly. “Can’t say I didn’t enjoy the thrill. How was Europe?”

“Oh you know,” James said with a snicker. “It was a _blast_!”

The two of them laughed uncontrollably, neither of them quite in their right mind. But what more could be expected from a couple of psychopathic kids who had both very narrowly escaped death?

Once they composed themselves, James spoke up. “Any word from Jay?”

Valentin shook his head. “None. But you know Jay: he likes to go solo, be dramatic, fall off the map, that sort of thing.”

“But Dad put a price on our heads, Tin,” James was worried. “Jay doesn’t know. He’ll be ambushed.”

Valentin shrugged. “If he hasn’t died already, I think he’ll be okay.”

“Do we know he’s alive?”

“No….”

____________________________

     “Do we know anything about the third brother, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked as he left his flat with his brother.

     “A few things,” Mycroft said, an undertone of bitterness in his voice that intrigued Sherlock.

Sherlock gave him a funny look. “Such as…?”

“Well,” Mycroft sighed. “We know who his mother is.”

Sherlock frowned. “And who would that be?”

Mycroft eyed his brother carefully. “Irene Adler.”

Sherlock displayed no outward signs of surprise, but inside all sorts of possibilities can tumbling into his head. He blinked once, then twice.

“Oh,” was his automatic answer.

Mycroft was still watching him, an unhappy expression displayed.

“Irene Adler was confirmed dead _years_ ago,” Mycroft stated, the bitterness coming out.

Sherlock glanced at him, pulling his collar closer to him as he hailed a cab. “Turns out someone was wrong.”

“I am never wrong,” snapped Mycroft, the bitterness sharp in his voice, a look of disgust and anger directed at Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled playfully. “And turns out that someone is you.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft couldn’t calm his voice. “Just how involved were you with Irene Adler?”

“Oh, you know…” Sherlock’s voice trailed off conveniently as a cab pulled up.

“Sherlock!!”

“See you later, Mycroft,” Sherlock said cheerily as he ducked into the cab, driving away to the hospital. As soon as Mycroft was out of sight, Sherlock became quite somber. Just how involved, indeed. Perhaps more so than he thought.

____________________________

James sat musing, one of the few hobbies of his he could partake in while bed-ridden. Thinking, however, was stressful for James, because thoughts were stressful, because ideas were stressful, because dealing with his conscious was stressful to say the least. Jay was missing. He was probably dead, but James had a gut feeling that Jay being dead was far too easy; something bigger was going on. James couldn’t quite figure out how safe he and Valentin were. Sure, they were among friends; nice, normal, caring friends. But placid friends just meant it was that much easier for Moriarty to slip past and drag James and his brother away. Or strangle them. Or shoot them. The list of ways Moriarty could kill them was endless and gruesome. James changed the subject.

James looked up as a knock came at the door, relieving him from the clutches of his own mind. He watched as the door opened a bit, and the head of an overly smiling Sherlock appeared.

“Hey James! How’re you doing?”

James stared at him, wondering what strange anomaly had prompted him to visit now, of all times. After all, James had been awake for nearly a month, and he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Sherlock the entire time. Why now? Why did he show up now?

Sherlock crept into the room hesitantly, his gait more exaggerated and awkward than usual. A great big grin was plastered on his face. James grimaced at it all. It was much too fake. Quite suddenly the reason for Sherlock’s façade occurred to James.

“I remember everything Sherlock. No memory loss here.”

The grin disappeared, the man relaxed, somber. “Oh. I see.”

James looked at his old friend, feeling overwhelmed with long-concealed depression.

“Thank you…” The words were barely choked out before James broke down, crying and sobbing without end, hands trembling terribly. With the return of Sherlock came the return of the full horror of James’ latest ordeal.

Sherlock pulled up a chair beside him, watching in agony as James went through the shock that came with trauma. There was nothing he could do to ease James’ pain; not yet. He waited, listening to the choked sobs and muffled whimpers and watched the tension and anger build up in his shoulders and one good fist. And with gradual acceptance, James’ shoulders relaxed, his fist unclenched, the crying ceased. Sobs became chuckles, and suddenly he was laughing. James was laughing his head off, but it was dark, bitter laugh. Sherlock couldn’t help but frown.

“James….”

“Oh it’s all so _brilliant_ , mista Sherlock!” He growled through clenched teeth, eyes flashing with something not quite human. “It’s brilliant!! Bloody brilliant!”

Another few minutes past; the laughter died in James’ throat, replaced by an exhaustion that James hadn’t felt since his two weeks in confinement a year ago. His head fell back onto his pillow, eyes gazing unfocused at the ceiling. He lifted up his arm and held it in front of his face, looking at his obnoxious neon green cast that engulfed his hand and lower arm, wiggling his fingers. His head rolled to one side, eyes looking calmly at Sherlock.

“Did you pick out the color?”

“Me? No,” Sherlock shook his head. “They never asked me.”

“It’s a terrible color,” James sighed. “You won’t find anything natural this shade of green. Trees, grass, moss; that’s what green looks like. This? This is sickening.”

“I’m sorry.”

James looked at Sherlock sharply. “No, _I’m_ sorry. You’ve done nothing wrong. Everything _I’ve_ done has been despicable.”

“You became my friend,” Sherlock said quietly. “And that was an alright thing to do.”

James sighed heavily, looking again at the ceiling. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right…”

There was a long silence between them. Sherlock couldn’t help but mourn for James. Everything decent he did, everything he tried to do, it always backfired, always hurt him. And yet he was still putting himself out there, being the hero, taking the bullet.

“Mista Sherlock…?”

“Yes James?”

“Where’s my dad at?”

“He’s in confinement out of country,” Sherlock said. “He won’t be bothering you or your brothers anytime soon.”

Another period of silence, both of them in thought.

“Mista Sherlock…?”

“Yes James?”

“Where will I be going after they release me from hospital?”

Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh a bit. “Isn’t it obvious? You’ll be staying with me, of course!”

James was eerily silent.

“What?” Sherlock frowned, laughter dying in his throat. “Would you prefer to stay somewhere else?”

“I didn’t think-….. I thought you’d-…. I-….. I didn’t think you’d want me around anymore…”

“Goddammit James!” Sherlock jumped up, giving James a hug despite the difficulty of doing so with James lying in bed hooked up to IVs.

James was shocked. It didn’t add up. He was nothing but trouble. Why would Sherlock want him around? Why would _anyone_ want him around? Then something inside James—a meek little voice hiding somewhere in his mind—spoke up in the confusion: “He loves you, James.”

Love. That irrational, unexplainable thing. His mother Missy loved him. Mrs. Hudson loved him. Socrates loved him. Molly Hooper loved him. John and Mary Watson loved him. Valentin loved him.

Sherlock loved him.

Sherlock forgave him.

Sherlock accepted him.

Sherlock saved his life.

James felt himself starting to cry again, not from pain, not from trauma, not from depression, but from relief; utter, uncontrollable, engulfing, liberating relief. He felt a tear drip onto his cheek; Sherlock was crying too.

“You’re coming to stay with me and that’s final,” Sherlock’s voice trembled, resolute.

James nodded, voice strangled with emotion. “Okay…. okay….”

It was okay.

He was okay.

He would be okay.


	28. Chapter 28

A knock came at the door of 221B Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson, washing dishes in her tiny kitchen, came bustling over and opened it. A beaming blonde boy with mischievous pale green eyes and the face of an angel stood outside with his arms folded behind his back, rocking back and forth from his heels to his tip-toes.

“Top of the morning to you, Mrs. Hudson,” Valentin chimed as he tipped his newsboy hat politely, revealing a mess of blond hair that darkened towards the roots, bringing the hat over his heart as he bowed overzealously.

Mrs. Hudson was beside herself, clapping her hands joyfully. “It’s lovely to see you, dearie! Come on in, come on in!” She turned and called up the stairs. “Boys! There’s a visitor to see you!”

Repositioning the hat on his head so it swallowed most of his hair, Valentin entered the flat, smiling as Mrs. Hudson went and grabbed something from her kitchen.

“Would you like some biscuits, dearie?” She asked as she shoved the tin of cookies into Valentin’s arms, knowing the answer.

“You’re a treasure, Mrs. Hudson!” He reached up on his tip-toes and planted a kiss on her cheek before heading up the stairs, already stuffing his face with the cookies.

She shook her head, returning to her dishes. “That rascal! Too darn lovely for his own good, that one…”

Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, sitting Indian style, perusing cases on his laptop. James lay on the couch, reading a collection of short stories by Edgar Allen Poe. Neither of them were dressed, but rather still in their pajamas and robes.

“Hello brother dear! Mr. Holmes!” Valentin leaned in the doorway by the stairs, voice muffled by the cookies filling his cheeks.

“Morning Tin,” James greeted idly. Sherlock offered a muffled sound of acknowledgment.

“Dr. and Mrs. Watson wanted me to remind you that the picnic is today, at noon. That’s an hour from now. I’m supposed to make sure you two make it.”

Sherlock looked at the boy from behind his laptop. “Is that all the Watson’s have you doing now a days? Running errands? What a waste!” He picked up glasses case someone had left behind, tossing it to the boy who caught it while keeping the tin of cookies balanced with the skill of a juggler.

“Tell me about the owner of those glasses,” Sherlock demanded.

Valentin looked at them, suddenly seeing a vast wealth of information, mouth running.

“Scuffs on the case, keys, pavement, but this case isn’t nearly indestructible… someone cares very little about these glasses.” He opened the case. “Readers. Prescription. Based on the frames, I’d say expensive too. Brand new; not a scratch on them. Someone who mistreats their case as they do would surely have a few scratches or marks on their glasses, but no. These must be new then, but the case is not. It’s reused. Sentimental value? A gift. Most people would keep around glasses with a few scuffs, but not this person. Brand new glasses, prescription, expensive; this person is a woman of wealth. Woman? Yes, this is not a man’s frame. Allow me to make the jump here, Mr. Holmes, in telling you that these belong to Madame DuPorte, a well-to-do widow heavily involved in local politics who finds herself shoulder to shoulder with politicians, her hobby, niche, if you will. The case was a gift from her late husband, the glasses brand new because she has the money to replace them frequently. Plus, I’ve seen her wearing these.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but smirk. “So my brother just happens to have the reading glasses of a widow and politician-lover, which I so kindly lifted from his possession. Well, well, well, Mycroft has himself a lady friend.” He smiled at Valentin. “Well done, Valentin.”

“ _Spaseeba_ ,” Valentin replied, Russian for _thank you_.

“Now, when was this picnic?” Sherlock asked as he got up from his chair, setting his laptop back on the desk.

“Noon. In an hour.”

“We better be getting ready then,” Sherlock remarked to James, who he turned and saw was completely engrossed in his book. Sherlock took the liberty to pluck the book from his hands, leaning over to put his face where the book had been. “Don’t you think so, Jamie?”

James glared at Sherlock’s smug face, rolling off the couch and onto his feet, heading up to his room to change, brushing past Valentin a bit roughly. Valentin beamed through the harassment, far too fond of his brother to be offended. Sherlock, too, went to his room to change. As he waited, Valentin gave the room one brief glance, immediately finding exactly what he wanted. Making his way over to the fireplace to admire the décor, he slipped his prize into his pocket with the deft fingers of one skilled at the art of pickpocketing.

“What an interesting skull,” Valentin remarked at the person who came up the stairs. “Is it real, do you know?”

Mrs. Hudson shrugged, straightening up some of Sherlock’s mess. “I’d venture so, dearie.”

“ _Ocharovatel'nyy_ ,” he muttered— _fascinating_ —popping another cookie into his mouth.

     Valentin snooped about the flat as he waited for his brother, looking out the window. He didn’t have long to wait, as James came barreling down the stairs, his big mastiff Socrates lumbering along sluggishly behind him.

     “All set?” James asked anxiously.

“Of course,” Valentin beamed, tipping his hat at Mrs. Hudson as he and his brother headed for the door. “Goodbye, Mrs. Hudson!”

“Is Sherlock not going with you two?”

“Tell him we’ll meet him at the park!” James called back, slipping away with his brother before they could be questioned further.

Hurrying down the street, slipping into the back alleys, James carefully avoiding Sherlock’s homeless network, the brothers made their way to a secret hangout they had designated. There was nothing special about it to distinguish it from any other dead-end in any other alley, but it was still theirs.

“Here,” Valentin pulled the cigarettes and nicotine patches from his pocket, the ones he stole from Sherlock’s stash, grinning.

James shook his head, taking his fair share from his brother. “You’re scarily good at stealing, Tin. You better watch yourself in stores. Never know what your fingers may snatch up.”

The two of them sat with their backs to the brick wall, James pulling a lighter from inside an empty spray can where it was kept. He watched his younger brother stick on two nicotine patches, one on each wrist; the wrist was the fastest way for the patches to take effect. Clamping down on a cigarette between his teeth, James flicked a flame to life on the lighter and lit up. He handed the lighter to Valentin as he breathed deeply the smoke from his cigarette, putting his share of nicotine patches on as his brother struggled with the lighter.

With a little less than an hour before they were expected to make an appearance at the Watson’s picnic, the two brother sat and smoked in silence for as long as they could. They knew just how long it would take for them to rid themselves of the stench of smoke from their clothes and breath, and they kept this in mind as they listened to the tolling of Big Ben off in the distance.

James let out a heavy sigh, smoke blowing out his nostrils. Valentin eyed his brother, breathing deeply on his cigarette before letting the smoke waft out of his open mouth lazily.

“Something the matter, _bratt_?” Valentin asked, often referring to James in the Russian term for brother.

“Just thinking, that’s all…”

“You shouldn’t think when you smoke… s’bad for you…” He laughed at the irony and lapsed back into silence, smoking his third cigarette.

James had already smoked five, stealing from Valentin’s stash to smoke his sixth. Something was definitely clawing at his nerves, eating at his mind. Something always was. Today is was nothing important; he was simply bothered by how the narrator in _The Tell Tale Heart_ dealt with murder. He was awfully sloppy and high strung, and that bothered James. Another day, it might be Jay; where the hell was he, or was he dead? Nicotine let James think quickly, allowing him to address things that bothered him and rationalize through them quicker and less painfully than when he was sobered up. But it also had the negative effect of jumbling his thoughts as well. Valentin was right; he shouldn’t think when he smoked.

Big Ben chimed a quarter ‘til, nagging James to his feet. Drawing in one last drag, James dropped his cigarette and crushed in beneath his heel, grinding the smoldering ashes into the pavement. Valentin joined him, tossing down his cigarette and watching his brother crush it into powder. Methodically, James stripped off his nicotine patches and tossed them on the ground, grabbing a water bottle filled with gasoline as Valentin added his patches to the pile. James sprinkled the gasoline onto them. He grabbed the last cigarette and lit it, tossing it into the pile. Everything began to burn viciously, the patches melting into a liquidly pile and evaporating into the air. When the gasoline was used up, there was no trace left of what had been done in the alley. James returned the lighter to the spray can and placed the water bottle back in its place, grabbing instead a spray can filled with mouthwash. The brothers took turns spraying their mouths until neither of them could smell the smoke on their breath; James retuned this bottle too.

Walking to the park, they stuck close to the edge of the sidewalk, cars whizzing past them and ripping the smoke from their clothes. By the time they got to the park, not even Sherlock could’ve known what they had been doing. It didn’t help that the two boys both had excellent poker faces.

And there they were: John Watson, chatting with his old friend Sherlock; Mary Watson, holding her husband’s hand, talking with the boys; Kate Eloise Watson, holding a kite, waiting impatiently for James and Valentin to show up. Spotting them, she ran over, blonde hair dancing, her curls of old having become the waviness of today, beautiful brown eyes blazing with a spoilt impatience.

“Tinny, I need you to run my kite!”

“Yes, _prinsessa_ ,” Valentin smiled— _princess_ —and took the kite, immediately taking off as Kate held onto the reel of string.

Within seconds, the wind caught the kite and lifted it into the air. With a cry of joy and success, Kate was finally flying her kite in the air. Not needing help any longer, she ignored Valentin and James and did her own thing. The brothers went and sat under a tree, laying in the cool grass and staring at the patterns made by the leaves and the sunlight poking through the gaps. It was playful. It was peaceful. It was beautiful. It was exactly what the two of them needed to see.

“How’s he been, John?” Sherlock asked as he looked at the boys who were a distance away.

“He’s been good, Sherlock. Surprisingly. You’d think Moriarty’s son would be more trouble, but no, Valentin, he’s…. he’s a good kid.” John sighed.

“That’s good.”

“What about James?” Mary asked. “Is he doing okay?”

“He’s alright,” Sherlock said, keeping an eye on him. “He was doing really well for a while there, but he took the news of his mother’s death pretty hard. It’s been difficult getting him out of that slum.”

“It was a real shame about Missy,” Mary sighed, sympathetic.

Sherlock nodded. “James wanted to blame himself for her death. He thought he should have predicted the political turmoil, should have pulled her out before things got worse. But once he realized he couldn’t possibly blame himself… he’s been recovering.”

James shut his eyes, breathed in the sweet air of spring, opening them to turn his head and look at Valentin. He saw his brother’s bright smile and frowned, reconsidering what he was going to say. Valentin was so happy getting to live a normal life with a normal family like the Watson’s.

“Hey Tin, I’ve got something to tell you…”

“ _Chto_? What is it?”

“I got a letter the other day…”

“Yeah?” Valentin rolled onto his stomach, propping himself up on his forearms, hands folded, looking at James intently, hat left in the grass and his hair a mess.

James was distracted, smiling crookedly. “You’re a goof, you know that Tin?”

Valentin gave his brother the most sincere of loving smiles. “Come on then, _bratt_ , what did this letter say?”

James sighed, looking back up at the leaves. “It was from Dad.”

There was a tense silence from his brother. “Really? The big man himself?”

“Yeah,” James said quietly. “I recognized the handwriting. The smudging from writing left-handedly. It was definitely him.”

“Well?” Valentin said just as quietly, chin resting on his hands, eyes glinting with anticipation. “What’d he say?”

“He wants us to visit him,” James looked at his brother again. “You and me both. He said so specifically.”

“What for, I wonder?” Valentin rolled back onto his back, hiding his face with his hat. There was no need. James knew he was worried, scared even.

“Just to chat, were his words,” James watched his brother carefully.

“No,” Valentin sighed. “You know better than I do; that’s not how he operates.”

“No, it’s not,” James said, staring at Kate Eloise who had abandoned her kite to pick flowers. “But we have to play his game. We’ve got too many good hands to quit now.”

“I want to fold, James…” Valentin sounded pained.

“It’ll be fine, Tin,” James said, losing his patience with his soft-hearted brother. “It’s just a chat.”

Valentin didn’t answer, looking over as Kate walked towards them, arms full of flowers. She came over to the boys, dumping the flowers in Valentin’s lap as he sat up.

“I want flowers in my hair, Tinny.” She batted her eyelashes at him.

“Anything for you, _prinsessa_.” Skillfully, fingers moving quickly and deftly, he braided the flowers into her wavy hair.

“You’re so good at this, Tinny!” Kate cooed.

Valentin smiled, blushing a bit. “All the _devochki_ , the little girls, in the town where I grew up, they were better at this than I was. Always braiding flowers into each other’s hair. They taught me how to do it, too. Believe it or not, my hair was long enough back then to be made into short little braids.”

His anecdote was over as he made the last finishing touches to Kate’s hair. She reached and touched her intricate braids tenderly, squealing with delight. She then busied herself sticking Valentin’s hair full of flowers. Valentin, being a year her younger, sat still without complaining. James scooched closer to them, stealing flowers from Valentin’s lap to weave himself a crown. When Kate ran out of places to stick flowers in Valentin’s hair, she turned on James and did the same to him. James didn’t mind all that much; he was busy with his crown. When he finished, he handed it off to Kate who was picking at the grass.

“Here,” James grinned mischievously. “Go put this on mista Sherlock.”

Kate grinned, taking the crown and speeding across the park to where the adults were chatting. Mary smiled when she saw Kate and her flowered braids.

“Oh Katie! You look lovely!”

Kate ignored her mother, approaching Sherlock and holding up the crown. “For you, mista Holmes.”

Sherlock forced a smile, beginning to decline when John cut him off.

“Oh come now, Sherlock! These flowers goes well with your eyes! See?” John placed the flower crown on Sherlock’s head, snorting in amusement.

Sherlock glowered, turning to look back at the party responsible. James waved, laughing uproariously with his brother.

“Oh, he’s doing fine, alright,” Sherlock muttered, shaking his head. He kept the crown on.


	29. Chapter 29

“Hello James my boy. Whatchya in for?”

James as roughly sat down across from his father, hands in cuffs. There was nothing, nothing but the table and the two chairs and the two of them; beyond that was obscured by darkness.

“Murder,” James said hoarsely.

He was taller than his father now, a tired look in his bloodshot eyes, hair cut short, unshaven face, calloused hands folded on the table.

“Just how many did they pin you for?”

“All of them. I confessed.”

“Oh how fun! Finally sick and tired of playing the game? Now tell me, Jamie, just how many people came to your defense?”

“None.”

“I would have.”

James looked up. It was Sherlock who was sitting across from him now. He looked pained, hurt.

“I would have come to your defense,” he repeated mournfully. “If you hadn’t shot and killed me too.”

He was bleeding, blood spilling from a hole in his head, eyes burning into James. Hot, pressure, painful, everything closing in, choking, strangling, hands grappling at his throat. There was a gun, _his_ gun, sitting on the table. He picked it up and stuck it in his mouth. There was no time to think. There was only screams flooding his ears. Moriarty’s smiling face. ‘Do it!” He pulled the trigger and everything went red.

It had been a long while since James had woken up screaming, but tonight was one of those nights. The scream tore itself from his throat as he grappled free of his covers, heavy from his sweat. James fell onto the floor, on his hands and knees, struggling to breathe. He wanted to keep screaming until he passed out, but his body demanded air. Where was he!? He looked around. Old bedroom; Sherlock’s flat. No! No he couldn’t be!! This wasn’t real! James was in a full on panic, trapped once more. How could he escape this nightmare!? Where was his gun!? Where was the gun!?

Looking desperately for his pistol, shaking violently, he didn’t hear the door being thrown open as Sherlock came in.

“James, are you alright!?”

James stumbled away from him. “Leave me alone!!”

“James, calm down!” Sherlock took a step towards him.

James was stabbed by further panic, screaming again as he tried to get a grip, convinced he was stuck in some hallucination, some terrible trick of the mind. Where was his gun!? He tore through his dresser drawers, desperate, terrified.

And there it was. Hidden behind all the socks. He grabbed a hold of it, seeing his freedom, his escape, his light at the end of the tunnel. Sherlock saw him take up the gun, saw the wild look in his eyes, and immediately grabbed his arm, disarming him.

“Let me go!!” James screamed hoarsely, fighting to get free of Sherlock’s grasp, desperate to put the bullet through his brain and wake up in reality.

Sherlock was trying to stay calm. “James. Look at me. This is real. I’m real.”

“Shut up!!” James dug his nails into his temple with his free hand, screams and voices starting fill his head. “Shut up!! You’re not real!! Let me go!!”

“Look at me!” Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him desperately. “Look at me, James! Look at me, goddammit!!!”

Blinking, shocked, James did. And he saw. This _was_ Sherlock. He looked around. This _was_ real. He saw his gun on the floor and suddenly felt very cold. That _was_ his gun, which would have put a _real_ bullet through his _real_ head. It was all so suddenly scary, terrifying, mortifying. James sobbed and hugged onto Sherlock for dear life. Sherlock hugged him back, relieved James was okay.

It was tense hour that passed, just the two of them sitting on James’ bed in silence. They didn’t exchange a word; they didn’t need to; just having each other there was enough. Neither of them were willing to address the elephant in the room, the fact that James had just tried to kill himself. Mistakenly, granted, but mistake or not, he would have been dead if Sherlock had not intervened.

“Shall we have some tea…?”

James nodded, heading down to the second floor with Sherlock. The moment he got there, the moment he saw the stairs, he knew it wasn’t tea that he wanted.

“I’ll be back, mista Sherlock…” James said, eyeing up the door on the first floor. “I just want to go for a walk…. clear my head….” He looked back at Sherlock, who was extraordinarily concerned.

“I’ll be fine… I promise…”

“If you insist,” Sherlock sighed, grabbing something off his mantle. “Try to keep yourself out of trouble….”

He handed what he had grabbed to James, who stared at the nicotine patches blankly, then glanced at Sherlock.

Sherlock winked, smiling a bit. “Didn’t think you two were _that_ sneaky, did you?”

“Look, mista Sherlock….”

“No need to explain, James,” Sherlock cut in. “Just try to stay away from the hard stuff: cocaine, heroin, opiates, that sort of thing. Alright?”

James nodded, putting on his overcoat over his pajamas and pocketing the nicotine patches, leaving the flat barefooted. Pulling his coat around him, he began to walk. The cold pavement poked needles into James’ bare feet, but the pain was good, it was welcome, it was real. There wasn’t much wind, but there was a dampness in the air that chilled James to the bone as he walked, his eyes darting and sizing up every figure that slinked around in the dark. Homeless, thugs, adulterers, reckless teens; London was full of them.

James came to an intersection, a street corner, pausing to decide where to go.

“Got any spare change, sah?” Came the voice of a homeless boy.

James rolled his eyes with a sigh. “You know I don’t give away money. Why bother, Tin?”

He turned and looked at his brother, who was dressed in a greasy oversized coat on top of a tattered sweatshirt, wearing gross sweatpants, his hair hidden beneath the hood of the sweatshirt. He pulled it off, beaming at his brother with a face fresh as the sun itself.

“You always know it’s me. It’s no fair.” Valentin laughed as he swirled his night’s earnings around in his collection cup.

“Get anything good tonight?” James asked as he watched the crosswalk sign change from green to red despite the lack of traffic.

“Refreshed a few faces, updated a few whereabouts,” Valentin looked in his cup. “Some wacko gave me some of his cocaine, a form of advertisement, I’d assume.”

Valentin pulled out the sandwich bag with the substance, looking at it scrutinizing. “I don’t think it’s any good though. Probably laced with toxins.”

James shoved his hands in his pockets, surprised as he found the nicotine patches, pulling them out.

“Here,” he handed a few to his brother. “Don’t kill yourself with that stuff.”

Beaming, Valentin applied the patches as quickly as he could roll up his sleeves. James eyed him carefully. He was definitely high already; no doubt from the cocaine. It was always Valentin’s weak point, drugs. It had quickly become apparent to James and Jay that Valentin had been involved with drugs long before he was pulled out of Russia by Moriarty. Valentin always reminisced about growing up on the streets in Russia’s slums, but he never went into detail about the sort of things he involved himself in to stay alive. One could only imagine.

James shook his head, applying the remainder of the patches to himself where they would take a long time to wear out. There would be no going home until he was sure his little brother was safe. Sitting himself down beside Valentin, James rested his arms on his knees, running a hand through his hair to fix it, staring up at the inky night sky.

“Hand it over,” James held out his hand casually.

With a reluctant sigh, Valentin relinquished the cocaine from his collection cup. James pocketed the bag, and held his hand back out, waiting. It took a minute, Valentin fidgeting, until he pulled two more bags from his coat, handing them over. One was practically empty. James pocketed these two, holding his hand back out once more.

“ _Chyort_! _Chto eto vyehs_!” Valentin snapped in Russian— _that’s everything, dammit!_

James calmly withdrew his hand, sitting and watching for movement in the streets. It took him a quite a while, but Valentin eventually calmed down, aided by the nicotine patches.

“I’m sorry, _bratt_ …” he mumbled apologetically.

“Let’s get you home.” James sighed, getting stiffly to his feet, the dampness of the air having caught up to him. He grabbed Valentin’s arms and hauled him to his feet as well. Valentin stripped out of his dirty, greasy homeless get-up and stashed them behind a dumpster in an alley, catching back up to James in nothing but a t-shirt and tights. James shook his head.

“Those are Kate’s, aren’t they?”

“What, these?” Valentin looked down at the black tights. “Yeah. So?”

“Nothing…” James kept walking back to the Watson’s. “I still don’t get why you don’t just join mista Sherlock’s homeless network, instead of going at it solo.”

“I can’t, see,” Valentin replied as he stretched himself out. “If I get Sherlock involved, and then I get busted, Dr. Watson will blame Sherlock and be mad at him. This way, if I get busted, it’s all on me.”

Valentin ran and did two full cartwheels on the sidewalk beside James, grinning from ear to ear. James did his best to ignore the antic of his drugged up brother, but he couldn’t help but smile at the radiating joy in his face. Valentin did a summersault in the air, then flipped into a handstand and walked on his hands besides James. After a minute, his feet fell to the ground, and Valentin paused in a backbend before coming gracefully to his feet once more, catching up to James, running out in front of him and pretending to box him as James walked.

“You better watch yourself, Tin, or I’ll clock you good,” James smiled a bit.

“No you won’t!” Valentin was panting, out of breath as he bobbed and weaved, dodging imaginary punches. “Jay would. The big man himself would. But you wouldn’t.”

“Speaking of which, I got us a cab that’ll take us to see Dad,” James said.

Immediately, Valentin sobered up, stopping dead in his tracks and watching as James kept on walking.

“You did…?” He ran after his brother, keeping pace.

“Yeah,” James replied, eyes still looking out for trouble. “It’s not set in stone or anything. We don’t have to go. I just found us a cab if we decide to.”

“Well of course we’re going!” Valentin sounded offended. “Daddy-kins asked us to! We can’t just say no! You know what ‘No’ means…”

Valentin folded up his hand like a gun and pretended to shoot himself in the head, falling to the ground and landing in another backbend. James frowned heavily, recalling how their father had actually gone and shot Valentin a while back, just because he was in the mood to. He remembered how Valentin sat and sulked as the blood gushed from his chest, wondering what in the world he had done to deserve being shot. He remembered how James had to gouge the bullet out of him and sew the hole shut himself. He remembered how Valentin never screamed, never cried out, just softly said “Ow,” the most agonized and heart-wrenching word James ever heard uttered. And here he was, four years older, none the wiser, still as chipper as the moment before he was shot.

“Still got that scar where he shot you?” James heard himself say idly.

“Yep!” Valentin pulled on his short collar and showed off the jagged, though faded scar by his collarbone. “That’s one to tell the grandkids about right there!” He beamed, a dark sadness behind that smile.

James kept walking, reaching the Watson’s house within another fifteen minutes. Valentin was dragging his feet, fully exhausted as he came off his high. James walked him over to the side of the house, where a thin rope hung out the open window to his bedroom. James took one look at Valentin and doubted he was in any state to climb.

“Maybe we should just pick the lock on the front door…”

Valentin shook his head. “This is a cinch, trust me.” He looked at James once more. “So that’s that, then? We’re visiting Dad?”

James nodded resolutely. “We are.”

“ _Zamechatel'nyy_ ,” he muttered— _wonderful­_ —as he wrapped a hand in the rope, pulling taught as he positioned his feet on the wall and began to climb upwards, feet walking up the wall.

James stood at watched to make sure he got to his room safely. Valentin did, of course, pulling the rope back up and waving to James before shutting his window. James waved back a bit, turning to head home. He had become thoroughly exhausted from dealing with his brother, walking home in something of a trance. He didn’t really notice as two men walked up behind him; he noticed, however, when they threw a sack over his head and cut off his oxygen. James struggled wildly, throwing kicks and punches left and right in hope of making contact with his attackers. His attempts quickly became weaker as his body became starved of oxygen. Gasping for breath, James felt himself lowered to the ground and heard the faint sound of a car pulling up as he was sucked into cold unconsciousness.


	30. Chapter 30

Sherlock waited impatiently, foot tapping incessantly, mind racing. James was missing, and according to Sherlock’s homeless network, he was last seen with his little addict brother. The knock came at the door. Mrs. Hudson’s delighted cry was heard. Footsteps on the stairs. And there was Valentin, as neat as ever, newsboy hat covering his hair, eyes displaying a slight redness around the edges, fingers jittery, prone to shivering.

“Hello, Mr. Holmes, sir. You wanted to see me?”

“Sit down,” Sherlock said as politely as possible, gesturing to the chair across from him.

Valentin glanced at the chair, and back at Sherlock, making his way over and sitting himself down comfortably, swallowed up in the armchair. He was acutely aware of the lack of James in the room. Sherlock’s eyes followed Mrs. Hudson as she shuffled around in the kitchen, waiting for her to return to the first floor before fixing his eyes intently on Valentin.

“Listen up and pay attention, Tin: if you don’t cooperate, John and Mary Watson will know of your little drug habit. No doubt they’ll feel the need to intervene and sober you up, keep you drug-free. Do we understand each other?”

Valentin nodded once, gulping, a carefully terrified look in his intelligent eyes giving away that he was officially threaten by Sherlock’s warning. Sherlock brought his folded hands to rest on his chin, leaning back as he kept his eyes fixed on boy.

“James is missing. He was last seen with you, the other night. What, _exactly_ , happened?”

A moment of shock flashed in the boy’s eyes, followed by a wave of forced acceptance. Valentin took in a careful breath, looking off to the side as his mind raced to gather up all the details. He looked down at his hands and began talking, telling Sherlock everything; well, everything except anything about Moriarty.

“Last I saw of him, he was standing outside my window, and I waved to him. I thought he was just gonna head home…”

“He wasn’t acting strange or anything?”

Valentin considered this and shook his head. “No. He was tired, somber, but he was stable.”

“Did you see anything—anyone—unusual while you played homeless?”

“There were a few people I didn’t expect to see, but they were regulars, locals, uninteresting. But… the man who gave me the cocaine was new…”

“Anything about him that stood out?”

Valentin pulled forth the information and reviewed it. “He seemed rather… clean, to be a drug dealer. I mean, clean shaven, freshly laundered dress shirt beneath his coat, shined shoes. Clean, neat, fancy almost. His hair was ruffled but not messy, how James’ hair looks after he brushes it all nicely and then starts thinking and getting his hands involved and ruins it. Disheveled, but purposefully; made to look messy, but not usually so. His hands too. Clean hands. Not the sort of hands a drug dealer might have. Too manicured, moisturized too.”

“Didn’t that make you immediately suspicious?”

Valentin looked away guiltily. “Well no…”

“Ah.” Sherlock understood. A distraction to cause him to overlook the oddities: drugs. Smart; a bone to keep the guard dog from bothering with the robber.

“Have you seen this man since then?” Sherlock posed.

There was a long pause as Valentin mentally ran through every last face he had encountered in the past day. Hundreds of faces, many of them recognized, identified, but none of them the man who had given him drugs the night James disappeared.

“No…” Valentin answered hollowly. “He’s up and disappeared. A criminal, then?”

“Most likely our kidnapper. Now think Valentin: the cocaine. Was it heavier than it should have been?”

The boy was really straining with all the recall he was doing, shoulders tense, hands a bit shaky.

“One of the bags,” he said, opening his eyes in surprise. “It was a bit heavier than it should have been for the amount of cocaine contained within. Something else was in there.”

“A tracking device, perhaps.”

Valentin looked at Sherlock. “And I gave the bags to James…”

“As someone clearly thought you would.”

“And the man, the man with the cocaine, the man who disappeared: he kidnapped James, didn’t he?”

“I believe so, from what you’ve told me. What I can’t figure out is why, or for whom.”

“For whom?”

“Well yes, clearly he was hired help, a kidnapper-for-hire, if you will.”

Valentin lapsed back into silence, eyes shut, thinking hard once more, bringing to mind every last painstaking detail he could on the man.

“Mr. Holmes,” he said timidly, head aching as he came out of his trance. “I think I’ve just remembered something about the man in question that may be useful…”

Sherlock looked at him hopefully. “Well?”

“Perfume.”

“Perfume?”

“It was very faint, but there was the lingering scent of perfume on his clothes.”

“Do you know which one? What perfume it was?”

“I do,” Valentin sighed heavily, pawing at his eyes. “Casmir.”

Sherlock fell silent for a moment. “Then I believe I know who our kidnapper’s employer is.”

____________________________

James came to with a headache, sitting up and looking around in confusion. He didn’t remember falling asleep on the floor, but somehow he vaguely recalled watching the mattress that he had slept on be set out for him. His hair clung to the side of his face, glued there by drool. Light pierced his eyes like knives, causing him to shut them from the pain. Everything was a bit fuzzy, details floating lazily into his mind and not bothering to connect the dots. James tried to stand, thinking he was on his feet and making a move towards the door. In reality, he hadn’t stood at all, and he tumbled off the mattress onto the hard floor, face stinging numbly from the impact.

Carefully, he pried himself from off the ground, on his hands and knees, head swimming and the whole room bobbing about and tilting back and forth. His lungs spasmed and his cheeks puffed out as he felt the sudden urge to vomit, taking quite a lot of mental and physical force to hold it back. The effort alone left him feeling drained and exhausted, him wanting to collapse flat on the floor once more and lay there forever. Slowly and with great strain, James began to recall what had happened. As soon as tiny details presented themselves, the entirety of the memories he sought came flooding to mind in vivid continuity.

____________________________

He had been kidnapped; well, kidnapped was such a strong word, especially since he was not a helpless child anymore. Once had had regained consciousness, he found himself in a lavishly decorated country home, almost big enough to qualify as a mansion. James immediately knew where he was: northern France, most likely in the Normandy region. The curious architecture of the building gave it away. Once awake, he was escorted by the burly man who plucked him from London, taken to a high-ceilinged parlor and sat down on the couch. James had fixed his hair into a more respectable form—though not extremely formal—and helped himself to the tea and scones sitting steaming on the coffee table. Once the biting hunger in his stomach had subsided, he sat back with hands folded and waited for his host to show up.

He was not at all surprised when he saw his host enter the room, though he did feel his cheeks flush rather hot. Irene Adler sat herself down in a loveseat across from James, wearing a short, rather see-through nightgown. James couldn’t tell that his hands clasped together more tensely and his posture became more rigid, but Irene’s subtle, playful smile revealed that she had noticed immediately.

“Look at you, freckles,” she said as she smiled into a cup of tea, sipping it. “Looks to me like you’ve hit a growth spurt since we last met.”

 _And I see you’re still in the business of trafficking children_ , were the words that James tried to say coolly. But as his mouth parted, his voice was suddenly absent, and instead he uttered a rather dumbfounded stutter from his throat.

He felt his cheeks burn brighter as amusement danced boldly in Irene’s eyes. She knew very well the effect she was having on him, and she enjoyed it; after all, it was power that she enjoyed above all else.

“What’s the matter, Jamie?” She asked with mocking concern, still playful. “Cat got your tongue?”

“No,” he blurted rather suddenly, as if his voice had snuck up on him; he cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “I’m quite fine, thank you.”

Her playful smile grew broader. “How adorable. You even lie like him.”

“Like who?” James sounded indigent; or maybe he actually _was_ indigent—he wasn’t paying much attention to himself.

“Like Sherlock Holmes,” she replied with an air of wistfulness.

James cleared his throat again out of necessity, afraid of his voice fleeing once more. “If you don’t mind, I would like to know why you had be brought here in the first place.”

“Wouldn’t you?” She couldn’t help but grin, endlessly entertained at his awkwardness. Her eyes stuck to him a minute longer before she let out a sigh.

“You’re right, of course. We should be getting to business.” She stood and made her way gracefully over to a walk-in closet built in to the parlor, her voice projecting as she changed.

“So tell me, freckles, what were you doing in London? I thought you were working with Jim now-a-days.”

James snorted a bit, a dry, bitter laugh. “If you’ve have any dealings with him, Ms. Adler, you’d know that there is no working _with_ Jim Moriarty.”

Only the sound of clothes being hung up and taken down could be heard from the closet. James continued.

“I’m actually on bedrest for the time being. My lovely Dad decided it was far time to put a bullet in my head. That’s not something you can just bounce back from and immediately jump back in the fray.”

Irene came back out, wearing a subtly floral summer dress. She sat back down and poured them both a fresh cup of tea.

“I really am sorry about handing you over to him, if it’s worth anything….”

James sighed; he had no regrets; imagining the past had been different was for those whose heads were empty enough for such wistful fantasies. “I know. I understand.”

There was a few minutes of silence between them, consumed with Irene reliving her regrets and James taking some time to think. A thought suddenly occurred to him among a factory line of other thoughts.

“Has Jay contacted you at all? Ever?”

“Oh yes,” she said as she set down her cup. “Quite a lot, actually.”

“Recently?” James asked with unbridled hope.

“I’d say. Just last week he sent me a letter and a pair of some young lady’s underwear. Cheeky bastard. I’ll smack his head good next time he comes home. Maybe it’ll knock some sense into him.”

“Just a week ago?” James’ voice had gone up an octave he was so happy. This was the first news he had received in two years that suggested whether or not Jay was dead or alive.

“There abouts,” she replied. “Has he not spoken to you at all?”

James shook his head. “None. Not the least bit.”

She shook her head again. “I swear, that boy can be the biggest idiot when it’s the least convenient for everybody else…”

James wasn’t listening; his mind was racing. Jay was alive! Was he still in China? Does that mean he had actually taken over Moriarty’s web there? Was he _ever_ planning on telling him or Valentin?

“What did he say in the letter, Ms. Adler?”

“The usual. He told me about the sort of trouble he’s been up to, just to make me worried. He’s a bastard like that. He mentioned he was going to America for a while. Said he’d buy me something expensive and exotic; seems he’s come into a great deal of money. God knows I don’t want to know how, or why.”

America! James’ heart nearly leapt from his chest. The plan had always been that whoever secured their allotted sector of the web first would be the one to work on the American sector. Jay was still executing the plan! James didn’t know what he should do, but he felt the overwhelming urge to do _something_ , _anything_ to help out with their big plan.

“But that’s not why I’ve had you brought here,” Irene cut in to James’ thoughts.

He looked at her carefully, shifting in the chair so he sat attentively, crossing his legs and holding on to one knee.

She elaborated. “Since you and Jay have been stirring up trouble in Jim’s network, I’ve been having difficulty cashing in the favors that I need to keep protected. And with Jim currently locked up in a padded box somewhere, things aren’t settling down. I need favors, James. The kind I believe you can help me with.”

“What sort of favors?” James asked quizzically.

“There’s a few people I need gone.”

James hesitated. “Like… relocated..?”

Irene rolled her eyes. “No, freckles. I mean killed. That’s why _you’re_ here and not a U-Haul.”

James frowned intensely. “I’m not a murderer-for-hire.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard.”

James felt his eye twitch as a scream ripped through his ears for the briefest split second. Before he knew it, he was on his feet.

“Look, no, I can’t, I’m sorry.” There was an edge of unstable panic in his voice that James wasn’t sure where it had come from. He was consumed with the overwhelming urge to take off running. Run from the stress. The pressure. The confrontation. The truth.

Irene stood, blocking him, her eyes cold. “I need this done James. If Jay were here I’d ask him to do it, but from what I can tell you’re partially responsible for why he _isn’t_ able to be here. So do me this small favor: just three people. I need them gone.”

James felt himself fidgeting endlessly in place, trying to find an opening, at which point he was certain he would bolt. The sounds in his head were coming at him faster, louder, more frequently. He needed an anchor, something to grasp onto before the torrents of his insanity swept him away.

“Calm down James,” said Molly Hooper, standing off to the side. “Take a deep breath. In…”

James breathed in unsteadily.

“And back out.”

James exhaled in a shiver, realizing for the first time he was shaking.

“Good. Again.”

Someone shouted over Molly. “Again! Again! Again!”

It was Moriarty. James flinched as he heard the vivid sounds of five gunshots, as loud as if the gun were held right beside him. A terrible scream reached a crescendo, ringing in his ears, turning him pale and making him instantly feel faint, enough to pass out.

“James?” Irene’s voice.

He looked up. It was his mother that was standing there. She was battered and bloodied and emancipated. Tears were flowing endlessly from her bloodshot, sunken eyes

“Where were you when I needed you most?” She sobbed.

James involuntarily took a step back, appalled by the sight of his mother, who had been held captive by rebels the last few weeks of her life and eventually executed.

“He blames himself.” Sherlock stood to another side, remarking casually to Molly who stood in mute serenity.

“He should. He could have saved her.” Moriarty’s voice, thick with anger and despise, him having replaced his mother, though retaining the wounds and blood that she had displayed.

“Are you alright?” Irene’s voice again, though distant, muffled, sounding like it was underwater.

James looked at his father. The room had changed. He was no longer in the parlor. He was in his padded cell, stained with blood, messages still written in the thick sanguine substance from the previous visits there. He gazed lazily at all the messages. _Murder is bliss_ ; _The ignorant shall die_ ; _Down with the King_ ; _Pain is real_ ; _Kill yourself…_

He suddenly felt the room lurch sideways, causing him to lose his footing and fall, falling hard into a metal chair, suddenly in a dark room with nothing but a single table and two chairs. James found himself confined in a bloodied straightjacket. A hand flashed out of the darkness and tore across his face in a violent slap. His head wrenched to one side and he was looking at the concrete floor, stained fresh by the blood that dripped from his mouth. He could feel several teeth missing, holes that provided an endless supply of blood.

“Why’d you do it, master James?” Mycroft sulked out of the darkness, as prim and proper as ever. “Why did you kill all those people?”

James felt his broken mouth contort painfully into a twisted, bloodied grin.

“For fun,” he rasped, blood choking him as it spilled down his throat.

The hand came out of the darkness again, slapping him to the other side. This time he fell out of the chair, fell and hit the ground in a different room. He stood up slowly, painfully. In the middle of this room was a large, round table with a world map on it, filled with pins and markers. James looked up to the other side of the table, where he knew from past visits he would find Valentin and Jay standing in eternal attention.

“What’s happening?” He asked calmly, straight jacket replaced by a suit and tie, but mouth still bleeding and bleeding and bleeding...

“It’s a defense mechanism,” Jay sneered impatiently. “You can’t think about killing. You never _think_ about killing. It just happens naturally, like breathing. If you think about it, if you’re confronted by the truth, your mind does everything in its power to shield you. Including drive you further insane. You can’t stomach the truth. You’re a lightweight.”

“What do I do to stop it?”

“Focus,” Valentin smiled brightly. “Calm down. Focus. Take control. This is _your_ mind palace. You have control. You just need to seize it and use it.”

James cringed for what he knew was coming. It always happened whenever he found himself in this room. Jay pulled out his pistol—James’ pistol—and shot Valentin point blank in the head. Like always, James just saw a flash of the crimson reds that burst forth from the angelic head of his little brother before he was somewhere else entirely. This time, he was in Sherlock’s flat. No one was there.

 _Focus_ , Valentin had said. _Calm down. Focus. Take control. This is_ your _mind palace._

“It’s _my_ mind palace,” James repeated diligently. Focus. Calm down. Focus.

____________________________

That was the last James could remember. Besides the mattress. For some reason, he had a faint memory of watching the mattress being placed. It was a curious anomaly, one James would very much like to explain, but a puzzle he had to tuck away in favor of using his brain power to solve the more pressing problem at hand.

Carefully, James got to his feet. It was probably the most difficult thing he had ever done. He was unable to even accomplish it without leaning heavily on the wall for support. Once on his own two feet, James stood propped up against the wall, seized by another overwhelming need to vomit that he had to wrestle into submission. Panting and dizzy, James just leaned there, only able to fantasize about walking to the door, which kept the little closet he was in from the rest of the world, and seeing what was beyond. Physically coordinating to cover the handful-of-feet distance that stood between him and the door was another matter, and one that seemed entirely impossible at the moment.

Time passed by with agonizingly ambiguity. He could have been standing there for hours, minutes; perhaps it had only been a few drawn-out seconds. With head still swimming and stomach churning, James decided he was long due for an attempt at movement. With a resolute push, he drew away from the wall, relying on his own legs to keep him upright. Surprised by the sudden weight of his body, his legs lurched and buckled and just about failed him. Another long spell of time passed before James realized he was still standing. He had stayed on his feet.

James knew what was going on. He had been drugged. He didn’t doubt that it was due to his spell of insanity. Breathing deeply, he did what he could to speed the chemicals through his system and find relief from their discombobulating effects. James kept his eyes fixed on the door, gauging foggily just how far he had to walk to reach the door. Should he take it step by step? No, that would increase the chances of his legs failing. He would have to bolt for it, do everything he could to coordinate the direction of his movement and leave everything else up to physics. He held his breath and made a break for it.

As soon as he began to move, the entire room lurched around him, tilting and spinning out of control. He began to fall to one side, then the other, and finally he fell forward, hitting the wall. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, but the blackness behind his eyelids was spinning too. This time, there was no fighting it; James retched onto the floor, instantly feeling a little bit better.

Very slowly, he took in his surroundings once more. He had reached the door; well, almost. He had fallen into the wall beside the door. Inching his way over, James reached with extraordinary effort and latched his hand feebly on the door handle. Leaning back, he rested—hand on the doorknob and back against the door—trying to build up the strength to stand again and shove the door open. However, there quickly became no need. The door opened on its own, and James fell flat on his back as it did. He blinked heavily, dizzy again, staring up into the face of the man who had kidnapped him in London.

“Good, you’re up,” he said gruffly, grabbing James beneath the arms and hauling him to his feet. “Snap out of it, kid. You’ve got work to do.”

____________________________

From the moment they had stepped into the private jet, Valentin couldn’t take his face from the window. It remained plastered there in absolute awe. Sherlock sat across the aisle from Valentin, glad for the silence that allowed him to think. For an hour there wasn’t a single sound above the muffled screaming of the engine, until Valentin pried his face from the glass.

“Where are we going?”

“To fetch James.”

“Yeah, but, where _exactly_?”

Sherlock shrugged. “We’ll start with Spain. Then we’ll make our way up to France and continue from there.”

“Spain…” Valentin breathed in wonder, talking mostly to himself. “I’ve never been to Spain…”

“What about France? Have you been there?”

Valentin looked at Sherlock, a little surprised someone was listening. “No, I haven’t been there either.”

“Then you’re in for a treat.” Sherlock continued to stare blankly in front of him, deep in thought.

Another spell of silence.

“Mr. Holmes?”

“Hmm…?”

“Do Dr. John and Mrs. Mary know I’m with you?”

“Yes, I texted John.”

“Oh. Okay. _Khorosho_.” _Good_.

Sherlock eyed him quizzically, brow creasing. “How long have you been out of Russia? When did you leave? At what age?”

Valentin looked at him innocently. “I was taken out when I was about seven.”

“Taken out?”

“Yes; I didn’t _leave_ Russia. I was taken out. Moriarty’s bidding, as it were. It was a good thing too. I wouldn’t have lasted much longer.”

“Understandable. Did you grow up on the street?”

Valentin nodded gloomily. “Yes, mostly. For a while, I joined a circus. The living was better, but the circus went bankrupt before long, and it was back to _trushchobl_. The slums.”

“I imagine you were involved in many of the… unfortunate activities that are so characteristic of Russian street-life.”

Sherlock watched as the normally cheery face of the boy turned rather dark, clouded with emotions of depression and regret. It was a disturbing change to witness.

“Yes, I was,” came his short, elusive answer.

They fell back into silence again, with Sherlock thinking and Valentin gazing out the window once more. Sherlock would glance over at the boy with his messy blonde hair, noticing that the gloominess stuck to him stubbornly. He made a mental note not to bring up his past again.

Their arrival in Spain was met by the return of Valentin’s cheer and a feeling of relief for Sherlock. Valentin stepped out of the plane, a grin spreading across his face as a gust of warm, salty-scented wind blew past and ruffled his hair. The sun glared down harshly and burned on the back of his neck, the intense light causing him to squint. For as far as the eye could see, there were tan, clay buildings with rusty staccato roofs, packed together like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Beyond the crowded city, rolling hills engulfed in a blue-tinted mist, buildings scattering their way from the city into hills, growing sparser with greater distance. And then there was the sight Valentin couldn’t take his eyes off of: the glittering, turquoise Mediterranean Sea.

A stocky man with a huffy air came waddling over to the plane. “Welcome to Barcelona, _señor_ Holmes!”

Sherlock smiled a bit. “Ah yes, Juan Pablo. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

The man clasped Sherlock’s hand in a burly handshake, then pulled him into a warm bear hug with a chuckle. “The pleasure is all mine, _señor_!”

“Yes, I can see that,” Sherlock wheezed offputtingly, slipping free of the man’s thick arms.

Juan Pablo turned his friendly mustachioed smile towards Valentin. “And who is this _niño_? _Su hijo_?”

“Just a friend,” Sherlock corrected.

Valentin smiled, holding out his skinny pale arm. “I’m Valentin. _Encantado de conocerte, señor_!”

Juan Pablo laughed uproariously at Valentin’s Russian-accented Spanish, clasping his outstretched arm in a firm handshake, beaming.

“Such a friendly _muchacho_! _Y fuerte_!” He grinned in fierce admiration, clapping Valentin on the back affectionately. “You’ve done good with this one, _señor_ Holmes.”

“He’s not half bad,” Sherlock remarked coyly, winking to Valentin.

Juan Pablo was a cab driver, as well as being friends with Sherlock. He drove them through the city, with crowded streets and colorful markets and all sorts of sights Valentin had never encountered before. Valentin rolled down the window of his side of the car and breathed in the salty air, smiling endlessly.

He beamed excitedly into the front seats, pale green eyes flashing with a buzz. “Where are we going, _señor_ Juan Pablo?”

“ _La playa, muchacho_. The beach.”

“ _Ura_!” Valentin exclaimed, pumping his fist in the air, his grin enough to illuminate the entire car.

Sherlock shook his head, but the smile was infectious; even he was smiling a bit. “Have you been to a beach before, Tin?”

“Oh yes, but I doubt this will be anything like the beaches at Dzhaore.”

“Yes, well, the Mediterranean Sea is a bit warmer than the Sea of Okhotsk.”

Valentin grinned cheekily. “Yeah, maybe just a bit.”

Before reaching the beach, Juan Pablo drove them to a small store, where they all went inside. The shop was stocked full of knick-knack and snacks and practical things; most definitely targeting a tourist market. The man who owned the stored—who went by Antonio—also seemed to be acquainted with Sherlock, and greeted him with passionate and grateful handshake, the kind with two hands and a slight bow, the kind of a man indebted. Valentin shopped around, looking at every last souvenir lined up on the shelves. Sherlock came over to him.

“You’ll need some clothes for the beach. T-shirt, swim trunks, different shoes; not to mention a towel and sunscreen. The quicker we’re done here, the more time we’ll have at the beach before looking for James. Are we clear?”

“Crystal!” Valentin was immediately snaking through the isles in search of his designated essentials. 

Once they had found everything they needed, Sherlock paid. The man Antonio was saying something stubbornly—something about a special deal, from what Valentin could make out. In the end, Antonio only took a fraction of the money Sherlock was prepared to pay him. Sherlock had Valentin change in the bathroom at the back of store. Valentin came out with a somewhat oversized shirt embellishing the local football team, pink and black swim trunks, and cheap flip-flops. Sherlock had changed as well; he was wearing a plain purple t-shirt and khaki shorts and a pair of plastic water-proof shoes. Despite the heat, he refused to shed his overcoat. They left the shop, and Juan Pablo said his goodbyes to the shop keeper, driving them to the beach. He claimed to know a hidden little spot where there wouldn’t be anyone else, driving the extra distance to take them there.

The car hadn’t been stopped for a full second before Valentin had bolted out and was running for the sand. As soon as his feet sunk in to the warm substrate, he stopped, kicking off his shoes and wiggling his toes. With a huge smile, he fell to his hands and knees and let his hands sink into the sand as well, sitting back onto his ankles as he cupped up a handful and watched it tickle out of his hands and catch in the wind. He might have sat there all day, perfectly content, if Sherlock hadn’t interrupted him.

“Come on Tin. You have to get in the water!” He said teasingly.

Valentin looked up, seeing the bright shining water lapping and foaming not far away, and scrambled to his feet, running awkwardly through the sand to reach the water. He didn’t slow down as he reach the water’s edge, running into the waves oscillating on the sand, the water splashing up onto his legs. He paused, frozen; the water was much colder than the sand. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was something to get used it. The water wrapped around his scorched feet, pulling the heat away as it receded, bringing new cooling relief as it drew back up the beach with renewed energy.

Valentin looked back, eyeing the aloof Sherlock who stood a safe distance up on dry sand, arms folded.

“Is it cold?” He asked warily.

“Not at all!” Valentin smiled, watching as he came over and walked into the waves, gasping in surprise.

“This is _really_ cold!!” He growled.

Valentin threw his head back and laughed good-naturedly. “Not compared to the Sea of Okhotsk it isn’t.”

Sherlock glared, kicking up water onto Valentin, laughing at the look of shock that hit the boy as the cold water soaked him. He splashed him again, causing Valentin to flee diagonally, getting further from Sherlock as he made his way deeper into the water, finally able to retaliate, splashing Sherlock with full force. The water went over Sherlock’s head, turning him soaking wet, his dark hair covering his eyes and the waterlogged locks weighed heavy on his head. He shook his head, water spraying forth as his hair puffed back up and retained some of its original volume. With playful vengeance burning in his eyes, and lunged and dunked Valentin beneath the water. He laughed as Valentin poked his head back out of the water up to his nose, blowing bubbles and glaring. But Valentin couldn’t keep a straight face, laughing out all the air trapped in his lungs and coming out of the water. He laid on his back and floated peacefully, rocked by the gently choppiness of the waves. Sherlock looked on and smiled affectionately. His heart ached. He wished he could see James be so happy and carefree, and he feared now he never would.


	31. Chapter 31

“No one’s home,” Sherlock sighed as he got back into Juan Pablo’s cab.

After the beach, they had gotten lunch from a local café—owned by one of Juan Pablo and Sherlock’s shared acquaintances—and dried off out in the intense sunlight on the café’s patio, heading to Irene Adler’s house that lay in the hills of more inland Barcelona afterwards. Upon arriving, Sherlock had found the house hadn’t been visited in for quite a long time.

“What now?” Valentin asked, worried about his brother.

“Now we go to France. There’s a few different places she uses there.”

“Leaving so soon, _señor_?” Juan Pablo chuckled knowingly, shaking his head.

They drove back to the private airport where their jet awaited. Valentin took in all the sights and sounds of the crowded, cheery city of Barcelona one last time, already missing it all but looking forward to visiting France. As he and Sherlock exited the cab on the runway, Juan Pablo shook their hands and dished out farewell hugs.

“It was so good to see you again, _señor_ Holmes. Don’t be a stranger.” He wrapped his arms around Sherlock in a burly hug before turning to Valentin.

“It was so good to meet you, _muchacho_. Keep this one in line for me, will you?”

Valentin smiled fondly at the bear-like gentleness of the man’s smile that was cloaked by his mustache, and crinkling eyes. “I’ll do my best, _señor_ Juan Pablo.”

Juan Pablo embraced him in a bear hug, lifting the short, thin Russian boy off his feet with a hearty laugh. Setting him down, he clasped a hand on the back of Valentin’s head, smiling gently once more with the sort of fatherly affection Valentin had lacked for the longest time. Valentin smiled back radiantly. After a moment longer, Juan Pablo was heading for his car and Valentin was walking alongside Sherlock, already missing the sturdy mustachioed man.

____________________________

Valentin sat dozing beside Sherlock on the metro, leaning on his arm as his eyelids grew heavy. They had landed at a private runway two hours ago, and since then they had driven into town, taken the metro, and had switched stations at least three times on their way to Paris. As the time fast approached nine o’clock, they had officially been travelling about for ten hours since they left London. Though Valentin had grown up on twenty-hour days as a child, his recent few years with the Watson’s had left him accustomed to a much more laid-back style of living. Needless to say, he was drained; a few hours of sleep would see him wide awake once more. Just a few hours….

The metro lurched, shaking Valentin from the pleasant drifting of partial sleep. Sitting up and rubbing his eyes vigorously, he blinked—eyelids still heavy—and looked about. The metro car was dark, illuminated dimly by running lights and the brief flashing of tunnel lights as the metro zoomed past. He could see the shapes of other passengers, strangers, shifting in their seats. He glanced up at Sherlock; his face was hidden by the upturned collar of his overcoat. Valentin could feel his pulse through his arm and hear his breath exchange very faintly. He was definitely asleep. Feeling responsible for their safety, Valentin sat himself more upright and did everything in his power to stay awake and alert.

If there was anything Valentin was good at, it was staying awake when he didn’t feel he possibly could. Once, his life depended on it; now, it was just a handy skill. Sitting up so rigidly straight it was painful, hands clasped so tight his knuckles dug into one another, feet pressed against the legs of his seat so that the backs of his shoes broke the skin of his heels; pain woke you up much faster than caffeine. Once satisfied with his level of attentiveness, Valentin checked the digital letters that circled near the ceiling. There were a handful of more stops before the one he and Sherlock were to take. Shifting in his seat, he made himself the most comfortable he could while still maintaining a constant degree of pain in order to keep his mind alert.

When they were only a few minutes from their stop, Valentin elbowed Sherlock softly. Instantly, Sherlock came awake, shaking himself a bit.

“What is it..?” He mumbled.

“We have to get off soon, Mr. Holmes…”

“Oh. Fine then.” Sherlock stretched in his seat, yawning as he came awake.

Together they got off the metro and made their way through the station to the surface once more, emerging in the bustling streets of Paris nightlife. As they walked, Valentin looked around, surprised that despite the late hour, the city was just had just as much hustle and bustle as during the middle of the day. They snaked through the endless crisscrossing and winding streets of Paris, eventually arriving at a part of the city that was more alive than the rest. Music and colorful lights burst forth from the nightclubs, teens and adult giggled as they weaved their way drunkenly from club to club, bar to bar. Sherlock kept walking, and Valentin kept following. The streets grew less alive, the venues grew more suspicious. Strip clubs, more run-down bars, women waiting at the street corners. A man slinked out of the shadows and cut off Sherlock.

“Hey man, _voulez-vous acheter des médicaments_?" He said in a raspy tone, displaying a variety of illegal substances kept inside his coat.

“Not interested,” Sherlock said bitterly, walking past the man. Valentin followed at his heels.

They kept walking a little while longer before Sherlock paused outside a rather large and crowded strip club.

“Irene had several friends that frequent here—both employees and customers—that always know if she’s in town,” Sherlock mused to no one in particular, turning to Valentin. “I’ll be quick. Stay put.”

Valentin nodded, watching a Sherlock disappeared behind the tinted glass doors of the club, swallowed up in the loud music and flashing lights. And then Valentin was alone. As much as he wanted to stay put and wait for Sherlock, Valentin’s feet had a bad habit of wandering. And wander he did. He went down the street, coming to an intersection and hearing something faintly. He turned and follow down this new street a distance, the sounds growing louder. A crowd. Music. Whistles and cheers. Oohs and ahhs. These were sounds that brought forth memories, sweet, nostalgic, warm and fuzzy. _Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls! Step right up! Step right up! You won’t believe your eyes! Witness something you’ve never seen before, heard before, dreamt before! Come see the most amazing show on Earth!_

He rounded the corner and saw what the commotion was all about. A crowd had gathered around a man who was juggling swords on a unicycle. Valentin shouldered his way through the crowd until he could see better, watching in reminiscent awe. When the man caught the swords and took a bow, Valentin slipped through the crowd, approaching him.

“Got another unicycle, comrade?” He asked anxiously.

The man eyed him, then nodded at the unicycle that sat off to the side; a spare, not doubt. With a grin, Valentin grabbed the unicycle, taking only a few seconds to recall the proper technique. He balanced perfectly, the oscillation back and forth to keep balance very minimal. The man grinned, handing off the swords to Valentin. Valentin looked at them, hefted them, mind immediately doing all the calculations that were needed. Knowing what tempo to keep and what height to throw, he began to juggle. Immediately the adrenaline began to flow. The crowd cheered; he was in his element. The man got on his unicycle, grinning still, nodding to him. Valentin tossed the swords differently, and suddenly they were juggling the dangerous blades between the two of them. The crowd went wild. Valentin pushed the limits further, and he and the man cycled around in a circle as they kept juggling. After a while, he tossed the swords over to the man to juggle alone, positioning himself so he could ride the unicycle balanced on his stomach. Cheers. Slowly, he made his way until he was riding the unicycle balanced on his hands. More cheers. Then one hand. Louder cheers. He sucked in a sharp breath, pushed himself into the air, spun tightly, and landed on his other hand on the seat of the unicycle, still balanced. The cheers exploded. Even the man had stopped juggling and was applauding. The proud smile on his face was toxic. He did the trick once more. The money came flooding in. Valentin did a somersault off the unicycle, landing on his feet and taking a bow. The cheers continued to flow for a solid minute as the crowd thinned out. The man picked up his hat overflowing with donations, and the crowd disappeared altogether, except for one tall man with dark messy hair.

“That was a great show,” Sherlock said with a smile. “I didn’t know you were so talented.”

“I wouldn’t call it talented,” Valentin said modestly as he shook hands with the performer. “I call it good memory.”

Sherlock shook his head at Valentin’s modesty as the boy exchanged a few words with the performer, who spoke fluent Russian. He was offering Valentin money, which Valentin politely refused. In the end, Valentin walked away with a very meager sum he eventually caved in and accepted.

“Did you know him?” Sherlock asked curiously, eyeing the man as he walked away with his swords and unicycles.

“No,” Valentin said, looking at the man as well. “But I recognized his tattoos. On his hands. Russian gang symbols. The type of gang that value being gutsy as well as calculating. And based on his technique, Russian-circus-trained, too. We made a great team, didn’t we?”

“You definitely stole the show there.” Sherlock put and arm around Valentin’s shoulders and they made their way back to the main roads.

“Well, acrobatics was always my one true love,” he sighed wistfully. “Though I had the luxury of dabbling in just about everyone’s training back in the day.”

Sherlock chuckled. “You never cease to surprise me, Tin.”

For Sherlock, that was the highest of compliments he could give. And by the way Valentin smiled and blushed, he was quite aware.


	32. Chapter 32

Among the bustling crowds of people swarming through Los Angeles, one could never pick out anything note-worthy about the seventeen-year-old who leaned against the wall of a consignment store leading into an alley, jingling quarters in his hand as he talked casually on a rusting payphone. If anyone had bothered to get a little bit closer to this kid, they would have noticed his black eye, his crooked nose, the black and blue bruise discoloring his cheek; they might have even noticed the bloodied bandage that protruded from beneath his cargo shorts, the bruises and nasty gashes on his arms and legs, the raw and lacerated state of his hands, the blood soaking and bubbling up from his left shoe. He was practically dying, though his meticulously styled hair and his suave, overconfident voice revealed nothing.

He slipped another quarter into the phone as the minutes ticked by on his long distance call, eyeing up the quarters left in his hand as he listened to the voice on the other end of the line.

“Is there any other reason you called, or did you just want to taunt me?”

Jay smirked, a looked that keyed in to his questionable sanity. “Don’t like hearing from your eldest, eh old man?”

“I don’t like hearing that he’s converting my pawns, no,” Moriarty growled.

Jay laughed, wiping away the blood from his nose as it continued to spill. “Consider this an act of check, Jim. It’s your move now.”

“Is it? Does this mean you’re having a bit of trouble rallying the American’s behind you?”

Jay scoffed a bit, leaning heavier against the wall as his dizziness grew stronger. “They’re not nearly as predictable as the Chinese, I’ll give you that.”

“Why don’t you pull out now? Take a break? You’ve been working so damn hard; you deserve some downtime. Come home. Give your old man a visit, why don’t ya?”

“I’ll pay you a visit when it’s time to stick a bullet in your skull and put you down,” Jay replied calmly, eyes shifting over the crowds of people moving past.

“Not if the Americans get to you first. You better hope you can get out before they move their people into the airports, cut you off. That would be checkmate, curly.”

Jay pushed in another quarter. “Enough chit-chat. Where’s the drop off?”

Moriarty laughed. “It’s a place of truth and lies. Find yourself and you’re bound to find what you need.”

“Not your damn riddles,” Jay growled, resting his head on his fist with elbow pressed against the wall, feeling ready to faint.

“Better get moving.” The line clicked dead, but Jay listened to the monotone for quite a bit longer, gathering his thoughts and weighing his options.

Jay picked up his grungy backpack that lay propped up beneath the payphone box, pulling out a beanie hat and a leather jacket, putting them both on. He unhooked his aviator sunglasses from the collar of his shirt and slid them on his face urbanely, slinging on his backpack and merging seamlessly into the crowds of people milling about L.A.

It was excruciatingly painful to walk normally, each swing of the leg tearing open the vicious gash in his thigh, each step sending daggers of pain shooting up from his foot that was soaked in blood, but it was all necessary to maintain a low profile. He reached the motel he was staying at, going to his room and locking the door, heading immediately to the bathroom. He unzipped a pocket of his backpack and pulled out a joint, lighting it with trembling hands and breathing in the intoxicating smoke deeply. Immediately, the pain that racked his body became dulled. He stripped out of his coat, his tank top, his shorts, his shoes, climbing in the bathtub in his boxers and sitting down. With the joint clenched in his teeth, Jay examined the damage that had been done to him. First thing was first: his foot. It had been shot over an hour ago and the blood loss was steadily becoming traumatic. Reaching over the side of the bathtub into his backpack, he pulled out a pair of pliers, fishing the bullet out of his foot, teeth clenched from the pain, smoking more heavily on his joint in order to find some escape. He eyed the bullet that he pulled out, smiling grimly as he put it and the pliers into his backpack. Jay turned on the bathwater as cold as he could and stuck his foot under the flow, nerves on fire, slowly numbing. He used the water to clean off his nasty, bloodied hands and then cupped water to his mouth, drinking past the point of slacking thirst; blood loss meant substantial water loss that had to be compensated for. Once his foot had gone completely numb and the wound was clean, he grabbed a handful of cotton balls, saturating them in antibiotic ointment and shoving them into the hole in his foot.

He finished his first joint and lit himself a new one, taking a minute to feel the effects before going back to his work. He pulled out sterile bandage cloth, wrapping his foot up tight, then wrapping it further with duct tape to hold everything together and let him walk better without every step spreading out the hole.

Next was the gash in his thigh. Slowly, carefully, he unwound the blood-soaked bandages from his leg. Immediately the inch-thick cut began to gush blood into the bathtub, all of it draining away along with the freezing cold water. The last thing Jay wanted to do was mess with the horrific wound, but his mind knew that there had been a rusty knife inside his leg and therefore the wound needed to be sterilized. His mind willed over the pain. He slid himself across the tub, seized by sharp pain as he moved his leg even the slightest. Gritting his teeth and holding his breath, he managed to position his leg under the stream of freezing cold water, unable to help but cry out in pain as the pressurized water pushed into the wound, stiflingly the cry as best he could. Chest heaving as he forced himself to keep breathing, he leaned his head back against the tiled wall and breathed the smoke of his joint deeper, glad as the cold and the drugs eased the pain once more.

Once cleaned, Jay smeared as much antibiotic cream as he could into the wound, teeth on edge; the general pain was all but gone, but any contact with the open wound caused screaming waves of agony to shoot up his spine. For a minute, Jay paused, smoking the rest of his second joint in mental preparation for what he needed to do next. Tossing the butt, he lit up on last joint and grabbed a small sewing kit from his backpack, pulling out a needle and spool of thick thread that were soaking in a bottle of rubbing alcohol.  The looped the thread into the eye of the needle with shaking hands, drawing in a slow, calming breath. He sank the needle into his leg, reaching his fingers into the cut to pull the needle through to the other side, puncturing through skin again. Over and over and over. It was a solid hour before he was finished, but the inch wound was finally reduced to less than half the original thickness.

Satisfied, he tied off the thread, wrapped the wound again in bandages. Jay got up stiffly from the bathtub, standing in front of the bathroom mirror as he fixed up the cuts on his face and arms and chest. He appreciated his intricate dragon tattoo that started to the left of his abdomen and snaked up his rib cage, flexing his toned body in egotistic admiration. Fixing his hair, he went back out into the main room of his motel, pulling half a bottle of hard liquor from his mini-fridge and taking a big gulp. Wincing as it burned down his throat, he collected up what few belongings that were in the motel and packed them into his backpack, dressing himself once more. Taking wash cloth from the bathroom, he soaked it in the liquor and stuck half the cloth out of the top of the bottle. He walked to the little kitchen, collecting the few food items he kept stashed and flipping on the gas of the four burners of the stove.

Satisfied, he sauntered from his motel room, shutting the door, and locking it, pocketing the key. He walked quite a distance away before pausing, taking his lighter from his pocket and pulling himself out a cigarette. Lighting it, he puffed on the satisfying smoke, lighting the alcohol-soaked cloth in the bottle of liquor. Jay hurled the flaming bottle back towards the motel, smirking as it smashed through the window. Within seconds, the entire place was in flames, the gas that was filling the air catching fire in an ear-shattering explosion. Jay couldn’t help but laugh to himself, smoking his cigarette as he walked away from his brief life in Los Angeles. The answer to Moriarty’s riddle had occurred to him: the library. The drop off was in the city’s library, in the self-help section. Jay went there, grinning as he found the manila envelope among the books full of false promises and sick optimism.

He ripped the envelope open, pulling out his new passport and new false identity, with it a plane ticket to leave in an hour for Germany. Jay immediately put the envelope and its contents into his backpack and left the library. For as much as Jay hated playing the game, he loved it equally as much; he would keep on buying in and playing until the day he died. And that day could very well be the next, from the way he played.

____________________________

Sitting down on an empty bench amongst the endless traffic of people that was so characteristic of an international airport, Jay opened up his new box of shoes, pulling out all the packaging and slipping them on. They were snazzy athletic trainers, all black, and they fit perfectly. Smiling, Jay put his old, blood soaked shoes in the shoe box, closed it up, and threw it in the trash. He stood up and walked a ways to a payphone, fishing the change from his cargo shorts pockets. Leaning comfortably against the wall as he picked the phone from the receiver, he fiddling the change in his hand until he held a single fifty pence coin, slipping it into the machine, followed by a second. Listening to the soft clinking of the coins being accepted, Jay punched in the numbers on the keypad and listened to the phone ring, checking his nails while he waited.

“You’ve reached the office of Mycroft Holmes. How may I help you?”

“Hey Anthea,” Jay greeted disarmingly. “I’d like to have a chat with the big man himself. Is he busy?”

“May I ask who’s calling?” She replied in a much less friendly tone.

“Oh I think we all know,” Jay laughed.

He heard the line click over to hold, enjoying the cliché sounds of Beethoven’s more famous symphonies for a very brief minute, when the line clicked live once more.

“James the elder,” came Mycroft’s falsely cheery voice; Jay could just picture his forced smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure of being contacted?”

Jay was smiling still, twirling his finger in the phone cord. “How you doing, Ice Man? Listen, I’m in town, and I was wondering if you’d like to get together, have tea, chat a little…. the usual.”

“I don’t have time for idle chit-chat,” Mycroft sighed.

“Then call it business. Let’s meet on business.”

“Where do you propose we meet?”

“You send the car, I’ll go anywhere. London Heathrow. I’ll be waiting.”

Jay let go of the phone, watching it jerk and dance on the end of the cord, leaving Mycroft to huff and puff indignantly to no one until the two fifty pence of time ran dry. Shouldering his backpack once more, he walked through the airport and out of the doors, sitting comfortably on a bench, watching the cars drive in and drop off passengers, lighting himself a cigarette and waiting for Anthea to show up with the car.

____________________________

“Nice place for some friendly business, ain’t it?” Jays grinned as he walked through the warehouse, glancing at Anthea who kept her nose buried in her phone indifferently, smacking on her gum.

“You and me Anthea. What do you say we run away together?” His grin grew venomous.

A minute later, they happened upon Mycroft, sitting at a vintage wooden table with claw feet, poised elegantly in a fancy wooden and velvet throne-of-a-chair. Jay kept walking over despite Anthea having stopped, sitting himself in the chair across from Mycroft.

“Nice place this,” Jay mused as he looked around the warehouse. “You could kill someone here and they wouldn’t be found for months. Maybe even a year or two.”

Mycroft glowered, unamused. “If you could refrain from being such a crazed child for five minutes, thank you.”

Jay fixed his hair, righting himself in his chair to mirror the astute politician. “My apologies.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Tell me, James: do you care for your brothers? Do they mean anything to you?”

A smirk began to show, quickly masked as Jay grew playfully serious, leaning forward and lowering his voice.

“What ever became of _your_ other brother, eh? Did you kill him?”

Mycroft grew disgustedly somber. “You aren’t supposed to know about that.”

Jay sneered, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet up on the table. “I’m ‘not supposed to’ a lot of things. Doesn’t mean shit to me. I like to dirty my hands in untouchable secrets. And so I do.”

 It was Mycroft’s turn to lean in, still clearly frustrated. “We’re alike, you and I. And I believe you’re clever enough to see that. It’s clear enough to me that Valentin is just a casualty waiting to happen, but James… James is different. He has… potential, wouldn’t you say, James?” He smiled rather smugly. “Or should I say, Daniel?”

It was Jay’s turn to be alarmed, his eyes flashing wildly and blazing with an instability that rarely displayed.

“Do _not_ call me that!!”

Mycroft laughed to himself, leaning back. “It’s your name, isn’t it? Daniel William Adler. Or at least, it _was_ your name until a certain Jim Moriarty had it changed.”

“You shut up about that! How’d you even know?! He had the records destroyed!”

A smug smile hovered about Mycroft’s lips. “I, too, have dirtied my hands in untouchable secrets.”

Jay sat in stony silence, his glare burning into Mycroft. Mycroft folded his hands and got back to business.

“Your brothers, James. Tell me about them.”

There was a moment of stubborn, bitter silence, then Jay gathered his maturity.

“Your right about Valentin,” he said, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it. “He’s just slowing us down. I know it, the old man knows it, and James knows it, even if he doesn’t acknowledge it.”

“And what about James the younger?”

“You try, you know? You want to work with him because it’d be better if you did, but he’s just so impossible sometimes. The problem is, he prefers to be ignorant. He doesn’t like confronting the truth. It scares him and he refuses to go near it. He’d rather live in his little fantasy land where he’s simply misled and can be put on a better path and have everything terrible disappear all magically. But no: he’s insane, he’s murdered people, to some degree he _likes_ murdering people; those sort of things don’t just magically disappear because someone says they forgive you. Besides, if he thinks the old man is just going to let him fold his hand and leave the game unharmed, he’s a bigger fool than I thought.”

“What are you going to do? Kill him?”

Jay sighed, breathing deeply from his cigarette as the stress began to envelope his mind.

“No…. I don’t know, maybe. Maybe not. It seems like a stupid thing to do. He’ll get himself killed eventually, and I have no clue when he might be useful again. Besides, he’s my brother. It’s me and him against the world, ain’t it?”

“And Valentin?”

“Hell no. He’s just a sore on our feet, a cancer in our heads. His loyalty is polite at best, nonexistent at worst. I’ll stick a knife in his pretty little face next time I see it.”

Mycroft skillfully changed the subject. “Let’s talk about your father.”

Jay grew incredibly serious, eyes cast down as a pang of sadness tightening on his chest. “Which one?”

Mycroft, too, was temporarily gripped by inexplicable grief. “Jim Moriarty, of course.”

“Of course…” Jay echoed, lighting another cigarette as his first burned out, the tenseness dissipating as quickly as it had descended.

“Anything you’d like to discuss related to him?”

“We’ve chatted, me and the old man. Nearly had me killed there in America. But he didn’t. He got me out. That’s the strange thing about him that I’ve noticed throughout the years. As much claims he treats me and James like we’re disposable—like we’re his enemies, lately—he always provides a loophole.  He always changes his mind at the last second. It’s like he actually cares for us, but doesn’t know what to do with that realization. Because it’s a weakness. It’s sentiment and that weakens him, softens him, gives him a pressure point that could be used against him. And that leaves him with two options: hide us away where no one can use us against him, or kill us and be rid of the pressure point altogether. I’m not quite sure he knows which option is best…”

“You actually think that man loves you?” Mycroft scoffed.

“No, I’m not quite the romantic my brother is,” Jay glared a bit. “It’s not love. It all takes roots in his ego, in his obsession with himself, in his desire to leave a legacy just like himself. Though he must accept we’re _not_ his clones, he’s also realized we’re all he’s got, and that he has to make do.”

“And what do you plan to do? Confront him about his feelings?” Mycroft mocked.

“I plan to apply pressure,” Jay smirked.

“What do you hope to accomplish by doing so?”

“I’ll have Moriarty beneath my thumb, and the world at my fingertips. I’ll take the crown while the old man’s still on the throne. I’ll tie him up in strings and make him dance like my very own puppet. If he wants us to keep playing his little game, I’m going to play dirty.”


	33. Chapter 33

Irene Adler had a wonderfully diverse library in her home in Normandy. James lounged on the couch in the high-ceilinged room, pouring through the books as the hours ticked by, growing a stack beside the couch of the ones he had read. Very simply put, James was bored. His true emotions were far more complex than just boredom, but it was much easier to blame it all on boredom than confront the dark reality of his complex, challenge-starved mind. Today he used boredom as his excuse for doing so much reading; yesterday he used it as his excuse for twistedly murdering the three men Irene needed gone. Boredom was key for keeping James feeling sane.

Despite the fresh blood on his hands, James was extraordinarily calm, partially due to the fact that he was constantly bombarded by cats; peaceful, doting, therapeutic cats. Irene’s house was full of cats just wandering their way in and out, taking naps on all the furniture and in every windowsill. Oddly enough, Irene didn’t even seem to like the cats; it was mostly just toleration. But James wasn’t too overly concerned by the matter; he liked the lazy cats, and they took a liking to him. As he lay in the library, with a tortoiseshell cat curled up on his chest, James was halfway through War and Peace when he paused, hearing the front door open and close, a rather faint but distinct sound. There was a thud, like a container of some kind hitting the floor; probably made of fabric, based on the sound of its contact with the wooden floor; probably a backpack based on the height the fabric container would have needed to fall from to create a sound at the decibel it did. Another sound, more distinct: a coat hitting the floor, leather by the sound of contact. Footsteps; athletic shoes. Then they stopped; James estimated they had reached the foyer.

“Oh Mother! I’m home!”

James felt his blood run cold and his heart skip a beat. It was Jay. Two long years and he finally heard his voice again. James didn’t know if he should hide or embrace his brother with open arms. At the moment, he remained stock still on the couch, book still held open and ready to read.

Jay laughed, ruffling his own hair was he made himself at home, scooping up a tabby cat and cradling her in his arm, tickling her paws.

“Well hello Bambi, how have you been little missie?”

The cat mewed, purring. Jay smiled warmly, a genuine smile, nuzzling the cat to his face before setting her down, waiting patiently for his mother as the cat oscillated past his leg, rubbing against him with affection. Irene showed up on the stairwell, a look of pleasant surprise on her face as she came down to embrace her son.

“Jay! I thought you said you were going to America.”

She hugged him, and he gave her a bear hug back, a head taller than her and muscular arms dwarfing hers.

“Oh you know,” he laughed carelessly. “I got there and it wasn’t all it’s chalked up to be. Besides, I’d rather spend time here. With you. And all the cats.”

Irene pulled away, giving Jay a resounding smack to the back of his head. “Don’t you ever run off and give me a scare like that!! He put a bounty on your head, I thought you were dead for sure!”

Jay rubbed the back of his head ruefully, head bowed. “Sorry Mum…”

Irene hugged him tightly again, holding back tears from the fear and the doubt surrounding her son that constantly plagued her.

James had been inching his way out of the library, finally emerging to see Irene hugging her son, and Jay—tall, strong, dark, menacing, heartless—hugging back, a softness to his facial expression and submissiveness in his posture that James had never witnessed. It was like seeing a lion turned kitten. James wasn’t even sure this teenager before him was truly the brother he knew, the brother who had jabbed a knife into a man’s forehead without batting an eye, the brother who had hacked a thug to death with a lumber ax, the brother who had placed a body in a home to lure the police and then blew the place to smithereens while smiling and smiling and smiling….

“James!” Came Jay’s surprised voice, carrying undertones of anger and hostility.

James snapped out of his daze, putting on a disarming smile for his brother. “Hey Jay! Glad to see you in one piece!”

They stood facing one another, only a few feet apart. James felt utterly transparent under the brooding, scrutinizing glare of Jay’s piercing blue eyes.

Irene cut in. “James came by to help me out with a few problems.”

“Is that right?” Jay said, the hostility concealing itself behind a condescending smirk. “You a killer-for-hire then, little brother?”

James twitched, clenching his hands into fists and digging his nails into his palms, focusing on the sharp pain.

“Not exactly,” he managed to say calmly, even smiling a little. “But I couldn’t just say no to Ms. Adler, now could I?”

Jay’s eyes continued to burn into James with palpable intensity. James stared back calmly, anchoring himself to the pain in his palms, unafraid of the brother who he now knew bent to Irene Adler’s will. They may have been at it for hours, just staring in the silence, if a knock hadn’t come at the front door.

“I’ve got it,” Irene said as she made her way towards the door. “You boys behave.”

And there it was. James let out a quiet sigh of relief; Jay was retrained by his mother’s command. James knew he was safe in her presence. Jay, too, took his gaze off of James and made his way to where he could see the front door, cautiously curious as to who could be visiting.

Irene opened the door, eyes widening in silent shock at the person who stood there.

“Hello Ms. Adler,” Sherlock greeted dryly. “Mind if we come in?”

Without waiting for an answer, he waltzed inside with Valentin at his heels. Valentin gazed around the house in wonder, admiring every last detail.

“What are you-…” Irene began, dumbfounded.

Sherlock cut her off. “I suspect it was you who snatched up my good friend James Moriarty Junior, was it not? I’ve come to take him home, if it’s not too much to ask.”

“Sherlock…” Irene faltered on her words, a worried and somewhat embarrassed look in her eye.

Sherlock frowned as he noticed; it was something he wasn’t expecting. “What is it, Irene..?”

Valentin had wandered down the short entranceway and found himself in the foyer, coming face with his two brother who both stood lurking, waiting, like wolves with their dark hair and dark clothes and shifting, suspicious eyes.

“ _Moi bratt'ya_!” He said in surprise— _my brothers_. “It is wonderful to see you both in one piece!”

“Hey there Tin!” James forced a smile, happy to see his brother, just not while Jay was around. It was like watching the antics of a naïve seal knowing there was a shark hunting it down. The horror was paralyzing and the anxiety almost too much to bear.

Valentin turned to Jay, extending a friendly hand. “Did things go well in China, _starshiy bratt_?”

Jay shook the hand, clamping down tight enough to force Valentin to cringe, his own expression impassive and dark. “Of course.”

He kept his hand clamped down on his brother’s for a bit longer than necessary, eyes burning into Valentin with an inexplicable and unreasonable hatred.  Valentin stared back, fully aware of his eldest brother’s intentions and stubbornly holding his ground. James shoved both brothers apart and he planted himself between vehement Jay and naïve Valentin; as always, he was the only thing preventing Jay from reaping ungrounded vengeance upon their younger brother. James eyed Jay with a cold impassiveness.

“You boys behave,” James echoed the words of Irene, watching the anger twitch in Jay’s face and his shoulders tense with the knowledge that he wasn’t supposed to step out of line. Not here. Not now.

Valentin caught the change as well, and immediately let his guard down, his goofy smile returning to his face like a bird after winter. But the smile was spooked away in an instant, James’ gun was hovering in his face, grasped tightly in the beat up hands of the eldest brother.

It all happened so fast. James immediately wrenched Jay’s arm in an attempt to disarm him. As soon as the pain registered, Jay threw a fist into James’s face. In the blink of an eye, they were both on the ground, both delivering calculating blows and causing devastating injuries to one another. James could feel his consciousness slipping away like blood from a wound as the blows kept coming and the injuries kept compiling; he kept throwing his punches, his kicks, but he could no longer tell if they were making contact at all. Another moment flashed past and he felt himself dragged from the floor, hoisted upwards from underneath his arms. A voice floated into his battered skull and echoed around.

“James?” He was turned around, staring into the intensely worried face of Sherlock Holmes.

“James?” The voice continued. “James look at me. Look at me. Are you alright?”

James blinked, heavily, slowly, a real conscious effort. Upon opening his eyes, nothing was any clearer; everything was hazy, lines were blurred, nothing in his peripheral was visible. It took more strength than he could muster to turn and look behind him, but he managed. And there was Jay. James couldn’t help but smile a bit; so he _had_ been making contact. The bloodied, discombobulated, doubled-over mess of a brother had been hauled off the floor by Irene’s muscle—the man who had kidnapped James—and he was now getting simultaneously berated and babied by his worried mother.

“James,” Sherlock persisted, turning James’ head back to look at him. “Look at me James. Tell me you’re alright. You have to be alright.”

James wanted to look at Sherlock, he did. But this time his attention drifted to the angelic boy and messy blonde hair who stood hovering over Sherlock’s shoulder. Another smile worked its way onto James’ face. _You’re welcome, Tin_ , he wanted to say.

“Goddammit James!!” Sherlock was checking his pulse, alarmed at its inconstancy.

His hands clasped on to either side of James’ head, quickly becoming stained with blood coming from some unseen wound in his skull. James couldn’t feel the pain anymore. His mind was focused on one thing: Sherlock Holmes. He looked so worried, his eyes as intense with concern as Jay’s were with anger. His brow furrowed and his face darkened, jaw clenched; you could almost see the wheels cranking away behind his eyes if you really looked hard.

“James,” came Molly Hooper’s voice from inside his head, clear and concise. “You’re going to lose consciousness here any second. And then you’re going to feel all the pain. Are you ready?”

James could faintly feel himself nodding, his eyelids too heavy to keep open anymore. He thought he could feel Sherlock’s hands grasping his head fervently, his voice taking on a tone of desperation, though his words too muddled to understand. He wasn’t too sure, for everything slipped away very quickly, leaving him in darkness.

At first, the darkness was cold, soothing. Then, all at once, as if he were thrust into the fires of hell, all manner of pain came flooding over him. He could feel the blows that caused each wound crashing into him anew. He screamed, but he was too deep for anyone to hear him.


	34. Chapter 34

James was walking through the thick, dewy grass that nearly came to his knees, treasuring the gentle aroma that wafted into the air with each careful footstep. The sun had been up for an hour, and its rays continued to bathe the earth with a soft, tender warmth. There was an easy breeze, picking up with half-hearted strength every now and again but always dying down to a sleepy whisper. The air smelled of salt, of dewy grass, of pale golden sunshine. James would have happily stood by and spent the rest of his life in this very spot if only time could maintain the world as it was now, at this early time of day in the beautiful countryside of Normandy. Sadly, in an hour the dew would be gone, the sun would be hot, and the breeze would be unpleasantly persistent. James didn’t dwell on the thought, for his mind was too caught up elsewhere, specifically on the figure who sat at the edge of the meadow, feet dangling over the white cliffs that took a sheer drop down to the beach below, where the English Channel foamed and lapped in endless rhythm.

Carefully, James sat himself beside this figure, his own feet hanging over the cliff’s edge as well. In silence, they stared into the dark, still-starry horizon of the west as the morning sun began to grow hotter on their backs. This calm, unstressed silence spoke volumes. It conveyed the apology that would never be put into words, but lingered on the soul like a cancer until offered forth. It signified a truce that would never been conscripted on paper, but instead would dwell heavily in their hearts and ache when close to dissolving.

“It’s beautiful,” Jay murmured as the western horizon steadily grew brighter.

“It is,” James sighed.

“Whenever we would come here when I was little, my mum and I, this was the only time I ever felt like I had a home. It was our own little sanctuary, our bubble that couldn’t be touched by the heartless city life or the scandalous secrecy that was so often the case with my mum. It was here that we could act like a proper family. Have picnics, lay around the house all carefree-like, watch the sun set over the ocean. It’s always been a place for me to step away from everything, to be myself without fear of getting hurt or compromised… and my mum, she’s always respected that. Her affairs never touch that house. It’s sacred, in a way.”

“I understand,” James replied. For him, that sacred place of sanctuary had always been Sherlock’s apartment.

“I often wonder, what would I do if I couldn’t step away once and a while, you know? What would happen to me if I was always running around with a price on my head, and some vengeful group or another at my heels, and a bucket-load of lies always spewing from my mouth? Nothing good, I can guess. Everyone needs to be able to step away, call a time out.”

“And what happens if we can’t anymore? If we end up fully committed one way or another?”

Jay smiled a bit, a sad, honest smile. “Then we keep donning the costume, putting on the mask, give a good show, have the crowd on their feet cheering at our tragedy. And when the character starts to go to our head, when we can’t remember what was real and what was scripted, that’s when we pull the trigger and set ourselves free. If our fate is written that way, who are we to smudge the words and pretend the future’s full of possibilities?”

“Can’t we re-write it?”

“We can try. But trying to change who you are and what you’ll become: that’ll put a gun to your head just as quick. I’d rather just embrace the truth and give one hell of a last hurrah.”

The ocean below, crashing to the beach in a gentle hiss, provided an excellent source of serenity to both brothers burdened with uncertain futures and overactive minds.

“Do you think we’ll make it? Do you think we’ll walk away from this sort of life and continue on as normal blokes?”

Jay shrugged. “I honestly have no clue. Who knows, maybe we’ll get really lucky, and no one with a brain ever takes interest in solving our murders. Then when we’re proper sick and tired of doing the same old thing, we can just side-step into an average sort of life, maybe settle down with a girl or two, have a couple kids who may very well strangle us in our sleep. It sounds so lovely, doesn’t it? A domestic life!”

“Domestic bliss,” James grinned.

Jay grinned back, laughing to himself. “That’s some brilliant advertising right there. I don’t know how they pulled that one off. ‘Domestic bliss.’ Give me a break!”

As their half-hearted laughter died down, James fixed his eyes on his hands.

“Look Jay,” he began slowly. “About Valentin…”

He was met with silence.

“Look, you don’t have to like him. You don’t even have to trust him. But there are _so_ many thorns in our side that you could be taking care of instead. Why, if you put half as much effort into shortening our list of enemies as you do trying to kill our little brother, we’d be unopposed by now!”

Jay was silent quite a bit longer before finally speaking up again.

“You make a fair point. But James…. You’re just so attached to him…”

“I am not attached to him,” James responded more defensively than he would have liked.

“If someone starts putting pressure on him, you’re going to go down like a house of cards, and I can’t keep us all alive on my own!”

“I promise, I won’t be getting pushed around on Valentin’s behalf. If he goes down, so be it. It’ll be just the two of us then. But until such a day raises its ugly head, it’s the _three_ of us against the world. You got it?”

“Blood is blood, no matter who it spills from.”

“True, but when Tin bleeds, your blood is bleeding too. As is mine.”

“Fair point. I’ll cut the runt some slack.”

“I appreciate that.”

Jay gave James an unhappy glance. “Of course you do. Because you’ve gone utterly soft.”

James threw a soft fist into his brother’s shoulder. “I think your bruises disagree with you there, mate…”

Jay couldn’t help but chuckle wryly, ruffling James’ hair crudely. “Don’t fool yourself. I could still take you down any day.”

James sighed, looking back down at the ocean as his brother stood up, lingering a minute at the edge of the cliff.

“I could jump now,” he breathed. “I could jump and write my own end right this second if I really wanted to…”

James waited, half expecting to see his brother’s body fall into the waves. Instead, he heard a heavy sigh.

“But it wouldn’t be a very happy ending. I’ll stay in the game so long as there’s a happy ending to be won.”

And with that, he walked back through the meadow, the dew all evaporated, and made his way to Irene’s mansion of a house that stood a half a mile away. James watched him go, shaking his head at the slight limp that still persisted. After a minute, James stood up, wincing at the sharp pain in his chest—broken ribs still trying to heal—and heading back to the house himself. They were even, Jay and him. And Valentin was safe at the moment. Everything was looking up. Funny thing about looking up, you never see the drop that’s ahead, and you can never see just how far a drop it is.

____________________________

Valentin sat in a wicker chair on the back porch of the house, awaiting the return of his brothers anxiously. He knew very well what they were discussing. Valentin twiddled his thumbs nervously, chewing his lip. He wasn’t sure what he would do if they told him he was out. He wasn’t positive the Watson’s would keep him around indefinitely. And if they did boot him to the curb, what then? He could join any old circus that passed through town. Maybe he would make it to Spain and meet up with Juan Pablo.

Sherlock walked out, having just woke up and still in his pajamas, carrying two cups of tea and sitting himself in the chair next to Valentin.

“Tea?” He said with a huge yawn and he passed a cup to Valentin.

“Thanks mista Holmes,” he said quietly as he sipped gingerly from the cup.

Sherlock took a minute to wake up, nursing his mug of tea, eventually breaking the silence once more.

“How are you feeling, Tin? Bored at all?”

Valentin shook his head. “Not at all, mista Holmes. I’m feeling rather tip-top, actually.”

A playful grin appeared on Sherlock’s face, quickly covered up by his cup of tea. Valentin eyed him curiously, pale green eyes twinkling with interest.

Sherlock’s grin became a knowing smile. “Tell me Tin: have you done any drugs lately?”

Valentin frowned, thinking back, suddenly realize it had been a week and a half since he had done any drugs, and not once had he felt the itch of boredom that always pushed him to drugs in the first place. He looked at Sherlock with unbridled shock.

“No, mista Holmes. I haven’t!”

“No,” Sherlock echoed, smile having turned a little sad. “You haven’t. And you never have to, Valentin. There are other things you can do to escape the boredom. Things that are far less destructive and dangerous than drugs. If you ever are struggling to find something to occupy yourself, you come to me. You can always come to me, Tin. I promise you, I’ll always be there when you need me.”

Valentin threw his thin, strong little arms around Sherlock in a hug, his cup of tea forgotten on the end table. Sherlock, caught unawares, did his very best not to spill his tea everywhere.

“Thank you, mista Holmes…” Tin said, a bit choked up.

Sherlock stroked the boy’s hair into a less frightful mess. “You can call me Sherlock, Tin.”

“Anything for you, mista Holmes!” He was grinning from ear to ear.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, looking up and seeing two figures approaching the house, one limping a bit. They had their arms around one another, and Sherlock sighed in relief at the sight.

“Looks like those two made amends.”

Valentin pulled away from the hug, looking to see his brothers. His grin grew brighter, and without a second’s worth of thought, he ran to meet them in the field, tackling them both in a hug and accidentally throwing them all into the grass.

Once Sherlock was sure Valentin wasn’t about to be strangled anytime soon, he headed back inside the house, scooping up a tuxedo cat on his way and holding it in his arms. Irene sat in the parlor sipping her morning tea, looking up as Sherlock entered, smiling to herself at the sight of his pajamas, bathrobe, and cradled cat.

“Good morning, Mr. Holmes.”

“Morning Ms. Adler. Has John stopped by yet?”

She shook her head. “I expect he’ll be here any minute now.”

Sherlock sat down with the cat, watching as it pranced out of his lap and tip-toed down the hall. Sherlock was thinking back to how John had gotten involved in this whole mess.

By the time Sherlock and Irene had pried James and Jay off of one another, they were both in serious condition. This wasn’t just two boys wailing on one another; this was two trained killers looking to put the other in the ground. Taking the boys to a hospital was out of the question; too many suspicious nurses and prying doctors, not to mention dangerous publicity. Instead, Sherlock called in his own personal doctor who he knew could keep a secret or two: John Watson.

John put up a fuss, but he packed his bags and flew to France just the same, bringing along Mary and Kate Eloise and calling it a vacation. While the girls stayed in a nice vacation home, John took a cab out to Normandy to meet Sherlock for the mysterious emergency he had been contacted about.

Sherlock could recall every last detail about John’s encounter with the beaten boys:

“Jesus Sherlock,” he had breathed in mortified disbelief. “What the hell happened?”

“Nothing too serious,” Sherlock shrugged. “They just got in a bit of a brotherly spat, that’s all.”

John immediately set about getting the boys in better shape. “Like hell they did!”

It was a long and tedious process, healing James and Jay, full of pain and blood and bandages and rubbing alcohol and John’s pesky questions that Sherlock easily evaded. But the boys were young, and they bounced back within a week. Their injuries still lingered and still threatened to develop into something more serious, but John had them on the path to a smooth recovery. Sherlock imagined today would be the last checkup the boys would need before John dismissed them as patched up.

Sherlock heard the brothers enter the house from the back porch and into the kitchen amid the slamming of cabinet doors and the rustling of cereal boxes and the clinking of bowls and spoons. Not a minute later, there came a knock at the door. Sherlock stood and made his way to the foyer and down the entrance hall, answering the door.

“Hello John,” Sherlock greeted with a yawn.

“Morning,” John said curtly as he entered, carrying his bag of medical supplies. “How are the boys doing?”

“Just fine, I’d say,” Sherlock commented as he led John to the kitchen. “The two of them were out and about early this morning.”

“That’s good,” John remarked.

They entered the kitchen to find the three boys sitting around the small kitchen table, shoveling cereal into their bottomless stomachs. All three of them looked like they had only rolled out of bed moments before.

“Hi Dr. Watson!” Valentin chimed warmly, beaming up from his bowl, grass entangled in his messy hair.

“Morning Mr. John,” came James’ muffled reply through a mouthful of cereal.

Jay continued to eat in stony silence; he wasn’t really much of a morning person.

“Good morning to you all,” John said as he set down his bag and unpacked his stethoscope and blood pressure cuff. “You two boys feeling alright today?”

Both James and Jay nodded in unison.

“Good,” John said dryly. “Let’s just be sure you’re in fair shape before I let you off my watch.”

Sherlock stood by and watched as John went through the routine checkup for James and Jay, revisiting the worst of their injuries to assure himself they were healing properly. Sherlock couldn’t help but smile as Valentin took interest, par the norm, and acted as John’s nurse. John, always in good humor for Valentin, explained everything he was doing and answered every question that came his way, as he had been the past nine days spent patching James and Jay up.

“Looks like you two are nearly better,” John said as he packed up his things. “Just try to stay out of trouble for a little while longer, and you should be back to your old selves.”

He fixed the older two brothers with a very stern look. “No fighting. No killing. No running. None of that stuff. Just relaxed, calm, _normal_ lives for a few weeks more. Got it?”

“Got it,” James nodded somberly.

“Yes sir,” Jay muttered through clenched teeth.

“Good. Valentin, will we be seeing you back in London?”

Valentin smiled. “Absolutely, Dr. Watson. If you’ll have me.”

“We love having you around, Tin.” John said as he gave the boy a quick hug. “Don’t you forget it!”

With that, John headed for the door, with Sherlock at his heels.

“Irene called you a cab,” he said. “It should be waiting for you outside.”

John whirled around suddenly, eyeing Sherlock quite seriously. “Sherlock. I’m your best friend. You can tell me anything, right?”

Sherlock blinked in surprise. “Well, sure, yeah….”

John worked up the nerve, pointing back towards the kitchen. “He’s yours, isn’t he?”

“What…?”

“He’s your son. Not Moriarty’s. _Yours_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock peaked out the windows around the front door. “The cab’s here. Best not leave it waiting.”

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock looked at John, looked into his earnest eyes that displayed everything, and wondered if his own eyes were betraying his own aching pain.

“Of course he’s not my son,” Sherlock scoffed with a look of slight disgust. “You really think I’d leave my son for just about anyone to raise? Of course not! And just look at him! He’s a psychopath, a bloody serial killer! And you think he’s _my_ son?”

“Cut the drama Sherlock,” John said, injured. “If you don’t want to tell me, fine. That’s fine. But don’t go and flat out lie to my face.”

And with that, John opened the front door, marched out of the house, into the cab, and drove off into the distance. Sherlock stood in the doorway, watching the cab drive off, and still watching when there wasn’t a cab in sight. Someone took his hand and laced their fingers together.

“You could tell him, you know….” Irene rested her head on his shoulder.

“I know,” Sherlock replied curtly, feeling far too many emotions than he was used to.

A long silence passed between them, both of them content to stand in the salty breeze with one another for a lifetime.

“Did you ever tell anyone?” Sherlock asked, glancing down at Irene.

Irene shook her head slowly. “Not a soul… It just seemed…. safer, that way…”

“My thoughts exactly…”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Jim Moriarty called.”

Sherlock fell silent.

“He wanted you to bring the boys to see him.”

“Why would I-…”

“They’re going, Sherlock,” Irene cut in. “The three of them have been planning to visit Jim on their own for weeks now. There’s no stopping them. At least if you accompanied them, I’d rest a little easier about the whole thing.”

“I’ll talk to them about it.” Sherlock could only imagine the damage Moriarty could do to each of them with just a few minutes of conversation.

Sherlock pulled away from Irene, detaching their hands, and made his way back to the kitchen to see the brothers. Irene looked down at her hands, lingering in the doorway a minute longer as a tear rolled down her cheek. She had meant it when she said she didn’t tell a soul about Jay’s true parentage. Not a soul. Not even Sherlock Holmes. And she desperately wished she had.


	35. Chapter 35

Jim Moriarty was marched from his cell in solitary confinement and brought forth to the visitor’s room. He smirked endlessly. Finally, _finally_ his boys had worked up the nerve to come and see him. Things were looking up for Jim Moriarty. At least, they were about to.

There was nothing that goaded Jay more than the smug smile he saw on Jim Moriarty’s face as he and his two brothers entered the room. He could have tackled him to the ground and strangled him to death that very instant, but if there was one thing Jay knew how to do, it was play the game. Instead, he sat across from his father at the lone table, James and Valentin taking a seat beside him. Sherlock wasn’t allowed inside the visitor’s room; he wasn’t family, after all. Instead, he stood helpless on the other side of the single one-way glass window in the dank, cement room.

“Leave us,” Jay growled at the two prison guards who stood lazily at either side of the visitor’s door. “We’ll be fine. Now go.”

There was quite a bit of hesitation, but after one look at the falsely innocent face of Jim Moriarty and the three calm boys, the two guards reluctantly made their exit. The door slammed shut behind them, locks clicking in place.

Moriarty grinned wickedly. “It’s been ages. How are my favorite boys?”

Valentin kept his terrified eyes fixed on his folded, trembling hands. James sat as still as possible, nails digging into his knees beneath the table. Jay sat back comfortably in the cheap metal folding chair, eyes piercing into Moriarty’s.

“Great, thanks for asking,” Jay snapped sarcastically. “Enough chit-chat. What the hell do you want?”

Moriarty sat back in his chair, hands folded in his lap, smile replaced by a look of puppy-dog innocence.

“I think we both know what I want, curly. In fact, I think we _all_ know. Russki?”

Valentin nodded a tiny bit, very nervously.

“Jamie?”

“Yeah.” His voice was void of emotion.

Moriarty smiled a bit. “Well good. We’re all on the same page. That will make this go by a bit quicker.”

The gun clicked in James’ hand, ready to shoot as he stood up quickly; Jay shoved his chair up under the door handle of the entrance and braced himself against it as the guards tried to get in, fumbling with their keys. Valentin stood off to the side, terrified of what might happen next.

There was a moment of dangerous silence from their father as his licked his lips carefully, mind racing, a devious plan taking shape just like the smile on his face.

“You got me,” he said with a smug smile, raising up his hands in innocence. “Go on. Shoot.”

James stood stock still, gun pointed steadily at Moriarty’s forehead, able to blow out his scheming brain in an instant. But James was hesitating. It was far too easy.

“Why would he want you to shoot?” Anderson pondered off to the side, leaning on the wall. “He dies. Then what? What could he possibly gain if he dies?”

“Shoot him James!!” Jay screamed as the door shook from the guards trying to get inside. “Do it now!!! Goddammit just _shoot him_!!!”

James held the gun in both hands as his one began to tremble.

“Don’t kill him James. It’s wrong.” Molly chided from somewhere behind him.

“What are you waiting for Jamie boy?” Moriarty teased, knowing all too well what was happening to his favorite son, knowing the turmoil that was ensuing inside his head.

“Well sure, don’t kill him. But there’s nothing wrong with a crippling injury now is there?” Mycroft said wryly. “May I suggest one of his upward-held hands?”

James could feel the grip of unconsciousness finding a hold on him. He shut his eyes for a split second. A flood of sights and sounds bombarded him behind closed eyelids: gunshot, screams, guards, rough hands, feet scraping the ground, handcuffs, iron bars, cold floor, sleepless nights, haunting screams. He opened them again and found himself on the ground, head spinning, vertigo swallowing him whole. Moriarty stood over him, gun in hand, shaking his head. He crouched down, checking James for any injuries he might have caused him, a smirk appearing when no one else could see.

“Thank you Jamie boy,” he said so only the two of them could hear, his voice a purr. “You were wonderful.”

Two seemingly gentle but stinging pats to the cheek later, Moriarty was standing handing the gun over to the guards innocently as they swarmed the room. A guard hauled James to his feet and brushed him off. James could barely stand. His head ached from where it had bashed into the concrete floor. He could see both his brothers, both detained by guards. He heard a voice in the ear that wasn’t ringing, looking over to see Moriarty chatting up two of the guards.

“You can’t blame them. Boys need their father or else they just don’t grow up right. Cut them some slack. No harm done. Here, we’ll even hug it out. See? Everything’s hunky dory.”

Moriarty went over to James and gave him a big, crushing bear hug. James may have been dazed, but he knew he had to save himself, and so he hugged his father back, making it as genuine as he could muster. As James was marched out of the room, Moriarty went over and hugged Jay, who was surpassing him in height and far surpassing him in muscle. The anger smoldered in Jay’s eyes, but his cocky smile gave nothing away. Lastly, it was just Moriarty, Valentin, and the guard waiting to escort Jim back to his cell. Moriarty eyed Valentin with a falsified fondness and bent down to give the small boy a hug.

“There’s a good boy. Putting those sticky fingers of yours to good use.”

Valentin was silent, looking away shamefaced for a moment, then smiling like an angel as his father gave him an affectionate clap on the back and a secretive wink.

“Don’t tell a soul, russki.”

And with that, Valentin ran to join his brothers, and Moriarty was walked back to his cell with exceptional behavior carved into his record and the keys to the prison that had been slipped into his pocket.


	36. Part VII

For a while, things were alright. Even in the depths of night the moon can shine brightly enough to feel like day. However, it was only a matter of time before a cloud would slips unseen across the night sky and block the moon, casting one back into total darkness. But this does not mean one can’t enjoy the moon while it shines unopposed. Thus was how the three brothers continued on with their lives. Each of them knew deep down in their hearts their days of peace had been numbered and were counting down rapidly. And so they lived those days to the fullest.

Back in London, it seemed as if the boys were turning their lives around, much to the delight of those who loved and cared for them. Valentin enrolled in Kate Eloise’s middle school and maintained a regular attendance and a clean drug record. James tested out of school and received his degree, using it to take up a job and Saint Bartholomew’s hospital. It was a simple job of cleaning and restocking, and it almost seemed insulting to the kid who was more knowledgeable in the field of medicine than half the doctors attendant, but James didn’t mind; it gave him time alone to think, money to spend on college textbooks, and the chance to spend more time with Molly Hooper. He loved Molly Hooper in that her quirky and selfless nature reminded him of his mother, whom he missed dearly and needed to fill the hole she left in his life. Molly Hooper more than filled that hole.

Jay, too, had been in London for a brief spell, also receiving his high school degree and even enrolling in several college courses at University College London. He stayed in his own apartment—since he had turned eighteen—and secured himself a job as lab assistant in the same field as Molly. The two of them became well acquainted, and then one day, Jay disappeared. Sherlock confirmed that he had gone home to his mother, but a month afterwards, had left there as well. This all seemed to sadden Sherlock for a short while, but he quickly returned to his old self, or at least masked his feelings.

It was on one beautiful fall day that James found himself walking from work to the middle school, as he did every chance he got. Whenever he was released from work early enough, he made a point of meeting Valentin after school and spending some time with him, whether it be walking around or back at Sherlock’s flat. And today was a walking day, because today was gorgeous. It was one of those rare days in the midst of fall where the sun suddenly shined with the lingering strength of summer, and the winds died down to where they wouldn’t disturb the gathering warmth. With the pleasant warmth and the multicolored trees, the day would make for one fine walk in the park.

James reached the school before the students were let out, and so he hung around a distance away where he could see when Valentin exited. After a minute, the bell rung and the students poured out of the school, piling into their buses and flooding the sidewalks as they scurried home. Many students waited around to be picked up by parents, forming little clusters of friends. James scanned through the swarms of kids, trying to spot his little brother. Instead, he saw something that made him frown. It was Kate Eloise Watson, looking as beautiful as summer itself, siting all by her lonesome. As James was watching, a handful of boys came up to Kate, and began to bother her. Before James knew what was happening, he was already storming his way over.

Kate looked up as James approached, no so surprised to see him as she was that he was coming over to her. The boys harassing Kate looked up as well, spotting the brooding, sixteen-year-old and thinking themselves powerful enough to confront even him, a boy three years older than they.

“Oi, what d’ya want, mate?” A pudgy boy with a pug-like face sneered.

“I want you to leave Ms. Watson alone, thank you,” James said in a voice that was eerily calm.

“Why should we?” Glared the tallest, oldest kid, clearly the leader.

James fixed him with a warning stare. “Because I said to.”

“That’s not a good reason!” Piped up the third boy he cracked the knuckles of his fist in his other hand.

“Yeah!” Sneered the leader. “Katie here won’t date me! So I gotta win her over, see?”

James twitched a little, but it was enough for Kate Eloise to know what was coming next, She darted out of the way and James’ hand shot out and snagged the leader by the shirt, hauling him easily off his feet.

James’ voice grew even calmer. “She said no. Is that not a good enough answer for you?”

He dropped the kid to the ground, watching as he made contact with the concrete ground and the wind was knocked from his lungs.

“This should do the trick: you’re not going to date Kate Eloise Watson. Not now. Not ever. And if I ever catch wind that you’ve been so much as looking at her the wrong way, you better hope your parents have some damn good insurance.”

James looked from the boy on the ground to his two petrified lackeys. “Do I make myself clear?”

James didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he turned around and offered his arm to Kate, who took it with a huge smile. Arm and arm, James walked her away from the school and back to her house.

As soon as they rounded the corner out of sight, Kate broke into a fit of giggles.

“Oh that was absolutely brilliant!” She squealed, tugging on James’ arm. “ _You_ were brilliant, Jamie!”

James shrugged a little, finding himself a little too caught up in the way her blonde hair was blown into her face and her beautiful brown eyes sparkled with life.

“Those boys are obnoxious!” She pouted, hugging to James’ arm with both of hers. “Did you mean it? Will you really beat them up if they bother me again?”

“Of course,” James said without thinking.

He meant it, sure, but he didn’t want to spook Kate. One hasty glance and he could see she was not intimidated in the slightest. Instead, she grinned, her nose wrinkling with childish mischief.

“Oh I would love to see that!” She laughed.

They continued on their way to the Watsons’. James barely noticed—it had felt so natural—that at some point in time, Kate had let go of his arm and had instead taken a hold of his hand. James felt like he was walking on clouds; Kate Eloise was beautiful in every sense of the word. Every day he saw her was a day she had grown even more beautiful, and deep inside James was terrified that one day she would be so beautiful her would be unable to speak to her, rendered speechless by her splendor. Little did he know, Kate Eloise Watson was infatuated with him. What wasn’t there to like? James was two to three years her elder, depending on the time of year, and the age gap only created an aura of both desirability and forbiddance that intertwined into the stuff of dreams. Not to mention James was not half bad in appearance, with his dark hair looking good both meticulously styled or thoughtlessly messy, and his stormy grey eyes always so complex in their display of emotion; after all, the emotions they displayed were complex themselves. Kate Eloise Watson, in short, had a major crush on James. And James, unaware as he may be, had quite the crush on Kate Eloise Watson.

“Weren’t you supposed to walk Tin home?” Kate piped up, remembering her surrogate brother.

“Yeah,” James shrugged, trying to play it off. “But you know. I’m pretty sure he had something after school to go to…”

“The gymnastics team doesn’t meet on Mondays, James,” Kate suppressed a giggle, seeing right through James’ excuses.

“H-He’ll be fine, I’m sure!” James sighed in exasperation, his ears burning with embarrassment.

“I’m sure,” Kate said as serious as she could through her bright, knowing smile.

They walked the rest of the way to Kate’s home in silence, apart from the idle chit chat that cropped up now and again.

“How’s school…?”

“It’s good. How’s work?”

“Good….”

“You still taking those online classes?”

“Yeah, nearly got enough credit hours for my bachelor’s. How’d you know?”

“Oh, you know…. Tin talks about it all the time…”

“He does…? Huh…”

When they arrived at the Watson home, neither of them were quite ready to part ways, but neither of them were so bold as to admit it. Instead, Kate let go of James’ hand and gave him a smile, brushing her hair behind her ear shyly.

“Thanks for telling those guys to piss off,” she said sweetly. “And… thanks for walking me home…”

She reached up on her tip-toes and gave James the softest kiss on the cheek, immediately bolting inside her house afterwards. James was left there, frozen in place, cheeks burning red. _She kissed me_ , he thought in surprise. _On the cheek. But she kissed me_. He nodded as he absorbed the bit of information, turning slowly around and gradually making his way back to Sherlock’s flat. It had begun to drizzle, and within the minute rain came pouring down relentlessly from the heavens. It didn’t matter. Nothing matter anymore than the fact that Kate had kissed his cheek. James could have died that very moment, and he would have died a happy man. But fate had it that James lived to see another day, and perhaps, in time, with luck, another kiss.


	37. Chapter 37

The clock struck the midnight hour in the quiet of quaint rural Germany. The quiet was disrupted only by the rowdy shouts and blaring music coming from a small bar, around which a town had cropped up over the years, and now proudly claimed the biggest population for miles around in the open fields and winding dirt roads. Every last seat at in the bar was taken as friends crowded around tables, long having denounced glum sobriety for the more preferable elation of drunkenness. They sat elbow to elbow at the small wooden tables, some playing cards among shouts of outrage and victory, others reminiscing uproariously as they downed pint after pint. Those with families and wives had long since departed, leaving only the rowdy bachelors and jolly elders and the handful of middle-aged that had nothing in their lives besides their job and their nights at the bar. A fire roared brightly in the fireplace, maintaining a stuffily warm temperature that helped raise tensions at the table playing cards and helped lull the older folk off to a peaceful, drunken slumber at the corner tables. At the bar, a small group of men sat in a line, drinking their beers as their glasses were refilled and keeping their eyes glued on the cheap, static-ridden television mounted in the corner behind the bar, crying out in outrage as a German football player missed the goal, and the fuzzy voice of the sportscaster continued to run his mouth.

It was at the far end of the bar, ignored by the others who sat beside him, keeping to himself, quietly working on his third pint of beer, that one would find James Moriarty Junior the elder. He had been travelling around Germany for months, mostly preying on the streets of the big cities, finding trouble and getting himself out of it, making money off of those who come by it illegally, living life on the edge. But like all good things, his time in the cities came to an abrupt close as gangs became organized enough to hunt him down. Jay slipped from the cities and found solace in the small rural towns such as the one he found himself in now.

He was happy, or at least, he was what he considered happy. As much as he had enjoyed dabbling in a normal life with Sherlock and Molly Hooper and his brothers, Jay had never stayed in one place for long, and he couldn’t force himself to if he wanted. Always running; with his mom, with Jim Moriarty, on his own. A life of caution and relocation and uncertainty had raised him, and in it he continued to find peace of mind. He figured he might be running for the rest of his life, or at least until his legs gave out. But Jay brushed such thoughts of the uncertain future from his mind, indulging himself in the rich German beer and succumbing to its inebriating power.

After a little while longer, the bar tender set down the glasses he was cleaning and came over to Jay. He was a friendly man, in his late fifties, sporting an unshaven face, his receding hair laced with silver, his healthy, meaty face flushed red by the heat, and always brandishing a disarming smile. He set his two thick, hairy arms on the bar and leaned forward on them, looking at Jay with a fatherly tenderness that never ceased to sparkle in his grey eyes.

“ _Noch ein Bier, mein Freund_?” He asked politely in German— _another beer, my friend?_

“ _Nur eine weitere, danke.”_ Jay answered— _just one more, thanks_.

The man smiled and refilled Jay’s glass from the tap as Jay pulled crumpled up money from his pocket, sliding enough for the beer plus a generous tip across the bar top.

“ _Danke, mein Freund_ ,” the bartender said as he pocketed the money, clasping Jay’s head with both hands and bring it forward, planting a kiss on his temple before walking back to tend to the rowdy gentlemen watching football.

Jay smiled, wondering just how old the bartender took him to be. While he was away, he had started to grow a beard which had gone from a suggested shadow of color to a undeniable scruff. His hair had also grown a bit longer and was kept in check with an old greyscale beanie cap he rarely took off anymore. _I’m almost eighteen_ , he wanted to tell him. _I’m not a child_. But Jay kept his mouth shut, finishing off his new drink within the hour. He wouldn’t admit it to himself, but he took great warmth in being treated kindly; he found himself unpractically fond of everyone who treated him kindly. That’s what made small towns like this one a two-edged sword for Jay: they kept him from the gangs and vengeful parties of the cities, but they also set him up to get way too involved in preserving the peace and happiness of the people who lived there.

The clock was due to chime of the one ‘o clock hour at any time, and Jay shouldered his backpack, heading for the door. The alcohol had left him feeling warm and fuzzy and a little too sleepy, and Jay wanted nothing more than to return to the tiny little motel and curl up in bed. He made his way down the dark streets, illuminated in the dim, fiery light of the gas streetlamps. The chilled air of night provided a stark contrast to the suffocatingly toasty atmosphere of the bar, and Jay found himself stiff, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his old, thick sweatshirt whose fabric still clung to the warmth and stench of the bar.

His eyelids felt heavy and the beer in his stomach sloshed about, but despite all things working against him, Jay heard what he needed to hear. A voice. Quiet, distant, echoing. Another voice. Deep, angry, menacing. Jay walked up to the alley that crossed his path back to the motel just a little ways ahead. Peering down the dark walkway flanked by the walls of a dance club and a consignment store, Jay could see, very faintly, the silhouettes of a woman and two others, bigger and bulkier. The two bigger figures were without a doubt threatening the woman, harassing her. Jay could hear their voices clearer, but he didn’t wait around to hear what sort of despicable or pitiful words were being exchanged.

“Hey!!” He snapped in German, sounding far more angry than he was aware he felt. “You leave her alone!”

He slipped off his backpack and set it against the wall, shedding his sweatshirt and putting it atop the bag, watching as the figures slowly grew more clear as his eyes adjusted.

“Get lost, you little shit!” One of the guys snarled, a knife glinting in his hand.

“Make me, douchebag.” Jay sneered.

In an instant the knife came flashing towards him, ready to cut him open, and in the same instant Jay snapped a wrist and commandeered the knife, tossing it away into the street as the man tried desperately to muffle his cries of pain.

“I’m warning you. Leave her alone or I’ll make you pay.” Jay’s voice came out calm as ever.

“Don’t try to be a hero, kid,” the other man snapped.

There was the click of a gun being loaded, and Jay knew it was pointed in his face. Jay couldn’t help but laugh just a little.

“Oh, you just made my night, mate.” He said, slipping back to English.

In the moment of confusion created by his sudden change of language, Jay rushed into the fight that was about to commence. He punched and kicked and threw his elbow with deadly accuracy, breaking ribs and rupturing organs. The gun went off a total of five times, all of them desperate attempts to subdue Jay, and all of them unsuccessful. When the two men were unconscious on the ground, Jay stood over them, panting, wiping blood from his lip, he fetched his hat from off the ground and pulled his sweatshirt back on, placing the hat back on his head and fiddling it until it sat just right. Scanning the scene of the fight, Jay found that in her escape, the woman being harassed had left her purse.

With a mischievous smile, Jay fetched two pairs of handcuffs from his backpack, cuffing the unconscious men in a way that even if they were to wake up before they were found by police, it would be impossible for them to make an escape. Satisfied, Jay slipped quite an impressive sum of money into the woman’s purse and placed it between the two men. Stretching, he shouldered his backpack again and continued on his way to his motel, smiling to himself as he recalled what the one man had said: _Don’t try to be a hero, kid_. Jay laughed. The man should’ve known teenagers are notorious for rebelling.

Back at the motel, Jay shut the door behind him and was greeted by five unsightly cats. They were missing fur, tails, bits of ears, a few of them with only a single eyeball. Jay embraced each one of them and fed them the fish he had purchased from bartender earlier that night. Jay changed out of his bloodied, beer-reeking clothes and put on a pair of pajama pants, staying topless. He sat himself down among his hodgepodge collection of cats, dolling out pettings and ear-rubbings and scratchings all around. These were the cats he had plucked from the streets in the cities, rescued from lives of hardship and uncertainty. There was nothing he loved more than raising a disheveled, mean street cat into a beautiful, lovable feline with a home. He yearned to see his cats come in to themselves, express themselves as individuals with the fear and doubt and homelessness behind them. In a way, Jay saw himself in these tough, scarred alley cats, and as he saw them become something beautiful with a little love and commitment, and, deep inside, he hoped that one day he too might be saved like his cats had been.

As the clock struck two, Jay couldn’t stay awake a minute longer. He lay on the floor, not wanting to disturb the cat asleep on his stomach by getting up and getting in bed, and he dozed off. He thought about his mom, wondered how she was doing. He wondered if she was still at their house in Normandy, or if she had gone off on her own adventure once again. He longed to see her smile at him and tell him how stupid he was; he longed to hear her advice and take it to heart, to be hurt by her words and change his ways because of them. And somberly, with mixed emotions, Jay thought of his dad. He wondered if they would ever have a real relationship, or if they were both doomed from the start. _One day_ , he promised himself, _one day we’ll sit down at some café, and we’ll talk. We’ll have a real conversation, and we’ll accept one another, and we’ll move ahead as a family._

As he drifted off to dreamless sleep, Jay felt engulfed by a deeply-rooted sadness that nearly brought him to tears. He was so lonely. Not just now, in this motel in this small town in Germany, but in life. Not just alone in company, but alone in his mind. No one could possibly understand all that he’s been through and still want to be around him.

“Nobody cares about me,” he smiled at one of his cats as she laid down on his chest. She was white a very soft, but he had found her coated in oil and nearly bald. “I’m nobody important. I could be, maybe, if I play my cards right, but what’s the point? Once you’re important, everyone loves to hate you. I don’t know…. It might be better to be hated than to be invisible, disposable…”

The cat mewed in its raspy, thick tone.

“Aw, that’s sweet Ophelia. I know _you_ guys like me. Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. Not while you five need me.”

She mewed again, shutting her eyes.

Jay smiled and laid his head back down, staring back the ceiling. “No Ophelia, I don’t see anything wrong with chatting to my cat friends at two in the morning. I can’t see why anyone would.”

He was met with silence as the cat began to slumber. Quietly, Jay yawned.

“’I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat,’ quoteth Poe. Goodnight Ophelia, goodnight Michelangelo, goodnight Mercutio, goodnight Horatio, and goodnight Julius Caesar.”

And with that, Jay joined his cats in the depth of sleep.


	38. Chapter 38

Mary shuffled down the stairs in her robe, yawning and rubbing her eyes, exhausted. She turned down the hall and walked into the kitchen, not at all surprised to find Valentin sitting at the kitchen table, curled up around a mug of steaming coffee, his blonde hair—which was in desperate need of a trim—spiked up at weird angles from a night of tossing and turning. Mary looked at the clock on the wall as she poured herself some coffee; it was 5:30 AM. She sat beside Valentin at the table, sipping her coffee in the silence. She glanced at the lanky young boy as he yawned, blinking heavily.

“Which one is that?” Mary asked, voice thick from grogginess.

“Fourth,” Valentin answered back in his crackly voice; his Russian accent was all but gone after spending so long in school, talking with his British colleagues.

“No more than five today,” She sighed. “But you can take some to school with you. Deal?”

“Deal…” Valentin mumbled, burying his face in his mug.

She smiled at him, giving his hair a fond ruffle as she stood, preparing breakfast for everyone. After a few minutes and another cup of coffee, Valentin helped out. He had a real knack in the kitchen, and Mary appreciated the extra hands. As she cooked bacon on the griddle and Valentin whipped up the pancake batter, she thought about the incident that had set the poor boy back:

Who would have thought club sports would be the place Valentin would be dragged back into his drug addiction? But that’s how it went. He had been on the gymnastics team for all of two months, when one day a couple of kids invited him take some prescription drugs with them. Who knew they’d have him craving serious drug within the week? It was Sherlock’s homeless network that caught him exchanging money with one of his old drug dealers. Cocaine. Overdose. Hospitalization. Kicked off the gymnastics team. Two months later, he rarely smiled, constantly feeding his new caffeine addiction to keep himself drug-free.

“You going to Sherlock’s again after school today, Tin?”

“Yes ma’am,” he answered. “James is meeting me after school.”

“Have fun then. I’ll see you for supper. Don’t be late.”

“Yes ma’am.”

They finished preparing breakfast, and Valentin took the liberty to set the table. Kate Eloise stumbled into the kitchen, hair a tangled mess and eyes still burdened by sleep. She stood in the doorway and watched Valentin circle the table as he set forks on napkins and knives beside plates.

“Morning Tin-Man,” she jibbed, sitting at her spot.

“Morning, _prinsessa_ …” Valentin answered quietly, bringing the food over to the table and sitting himself down.

“Kate,” Mary asked as she sat down. “Where’s your father? Is he awake?”

“I’m right here…” John grumbled as he trudged into the kitchen, wrapped up in his bathrobe and hair still damp from his morning shower.

“Good,” Mary smiled as John sat down across from her. “Then let’s eat.”

The family ate in silence, for everyone was tired and no one was a morning person. Valentin was the first to finish, heading to his room to change and gather his things for school. He came quietly down the stairs and was headed for the door when John called out.

“Hold on a minute, Tin!” He said as he got up from the table and made his way to the stairs. “I’m going to walk with you to school today, alright? Just give me a minute.”

Valentin hovered by the door, waiting on John Watson obediently, all expression masked in one hollow, somber visage. John came down in his work clothes and a coat.

“Come on,” he said curtly as he headed out the door, Valentin follow behind.

The two of them walked through the chilled December morning, the sky overcast and a restless wind kicking up dead leaves in the streets of London. Valentin watched the leaves be blown high up in the air, swirling and dancing before plummeting back down to the ground. His eyes wandered to the trees, where a few last trembling leaves clung on to thoughts of warmer times. One of these leaves was torn from the tree by a particularly zealous gust, and thrown into the fray of other tumbling leaves high up in the air. Valentin’s heart ached for this leaf, as insignificant as it was. He had once been like that leaf, green and healthy, eyes fixed on the clouds and the infinite beyond. And then one day, a cold swept in, and he clung to an optimism that ultimately betrayed him. He had fallen on hard times, tossed about by a wind of change, brought close to the clouds only to be dropped back to a cold reality. Valentin could feel the tears, hot and angry and helpless, flooding into his eyes. _It’s just the wind_ , he thought to himself. _It’s just the wind in my eyes_.

John could see the pain burning behind Valentin’s pale green eyes, and he wished more than anything he could dowse the flame. He threw an arm around Valentin’s shoulders and pulled the boy close.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” John said. “Everyone’s got their bad days. It’s those days that make the good days that much brighter in comparison.

Valentin had never realized before why Jay and Moriarty always despised him, never trusted him. He understood now. He was weak, and blind, and impressionable, and without integrity. He could see now just why they had hated him so much, and now he hated himself just as much.

“Look Valentin, everybody makes mistakes,” John continued, trying to get through to his surrogate son. “So you got back into drugs, so it almost killed you. You could’ve done a lot worse.”

 _Like murder a dozen people_ , Valentin thought spitefully of his brothers. How come they were never plagued with self-loathing like he was?

John took a hold of both Valentin’s shoulders and stopped, looking him in the eye with an aching concern.

“I don’t want you to be discouraged, Tin,” he sighed heavily. “If there’s anything I’ve learned from Sherlock Holmes, it’s that people are gonna prey on the people like you two when you slip up. They see you being so happy and smart and confident, and they want to tear you down any chance they get, bring you down to their level of misery and incompetence and doubt. They think it’s good for you to get a little taste of reality every now and again. But I know from living with Sherlock that it’s _not_ good. You two, you’re either on top of the world or your dangerously depressed, there’s no middle ground. And I’d rather have you smiling so much the sun becomes envious than have you like this, Tin.”

“But I’m not smart like Mr. Sherlock!” Valentin blurted. “I’m just an optimistic idiot. And I don’t know, but I think I’d be better off a bitter, miserable sage than a beaming blind fool!”

John couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re joking, right? Tin, you’re twice as smart as Mary, and at least four times as smart as me!”

“My teachers would disagree…” Tin mumbled miserably.

“Book-smart is just one kind of intelligence, Tin. And you might not be all that book-smart, but you’ve got high counts in all other areas of intellect.”  John threw his arm around him again and kept walking.

“You really mean it…?” Tin asked hopefully, unable to help but allow a spark of optimism to catch fire.

“Of course I mean it!” John smiled. “You’re gonna go real far in life, Valentin. And when you do, I will personally help you track down your teachers and prove to them they were wrong about you!”

John waved goodbye to Valentin as he left the boy at his school, continuing on his way to work. Valentin entered the prison that was school and held his head high. Every day was always challenging in its own way, but every day since the drug incident was simply hellish. Kids who had disliked him before now found themselves able to openly scorn him under the shroud of the drug problem. Kids who had tolerated him looked right through him, walked right past him, didn’t bother themselves with him. Even the kids who Valentin had considered his friends had all but abandoned him; most of the students on the gymnastics team had gotten in some sort of trouble due to the drugs, and despised Valentin for bringing the substance abuse to light; aside from the gymnastics team, there were few other students that were ever friendly towards Valentin.

And so Valentin endured another day, head buried in his notebooks, desperate to succeed despite the low expectation held by his teachers. At lunch, Valentin sat alone, staring across the lunchroom at Kate Eloise, who always smiled and laughed at her table packed elbow-to-elbow with her friends. He didn’t think to bother her and the dynamic of her lunch table; he didn’t imagine she would ever consider sitting with him. As close as they were back at their home, Valentin and Kate Eloise could have been strangers at school, the way they walked their separate ways and never so much as flashed a friendly smile. Valentin knew better than to try and be friends with school-Kate, having quickly picked up on the customs and social norms of the peculiar school setting.

The end of the day found Valentin held back in his last class: algebra. His teacher, a young, pretty woman with an oftentimes embarrassing amount of enthusiasm, was the only teacher of Valentin’s that seemed to believe he could do well. She kept him after class a few extra minutes to give him some extra review work before the test at the end of that week. With a smile—one that had been so bright and now seemed so dull without the optimism behind it—Valentin thanked his teacher for her help, packed his book bag, and headed out into the hallway to stop at his locker. Unfortunately, circumstances had it that Valentin wouldn’t make it that far. Instead, he encountered Kate Eloise Watson, in the middle of a fight with her less-than-pleasant boyfriend. She looked so mad, so upset, Valentin couldn’t help himself.

“Problem?” He asked politely, shouldering his backpack to a more comfortable position.

“It’s fine,” Kate began hastily. “Just go-”

“Get lost, loser!” Her boyfriend scoffed, eyeing the short, skinny blonde that stood before him.

“Oh don’t worry, I will,” Valentin smiled faintly. “Just as soon as you leave her alone.”

“Hey, I know you!” The boyfriend grinned nastily. “You’re that queer kid who overdosed on drugs?”

In that moment, something snapped inside Valentin. Nothing changed about his expression, his posture, but something in his head had suddenly been shook up.

“Is that the best you got?” Valentin laughed breathily. “Queer and a druggy? Come on. Be creative.”

“Valentin,” Kate half growled, half pleaded. “Please just go home. I can handle this.”

“Be creative?” Her boyfriend sneered. “Why? ‘Cause you’re too stupid to think of something yourself?”

That was it. Kate Eloise knew, her shoulders slumping in defeat, giving Valentin a surrendering look. He smiled, a dark but eerily pleasant smile. And then his fist flew up and smashed into her boyfriend’s jaw.

The kid recovered impressively quick, threw off his backpack, and pummeled Valentin to the ground. Fortunately for Valentin, he may not have been the best in a fist fight, but wrestling was his forte. On the ground, the odds swayed in his favor, and within a minute he had the burly boyfriend in a headlock, the thrashing kid quickly depleting his supply of oxygen. Kate stood by, arms folded unhappily, nodding to Valentin.

“Alright Tin, let him go.”

“Break up with him,” Valentin managed as he fought to keep the chokehold.

“Fine. Danny, we’re through. Now let him go, Tin.”

Valentin released Kate’s now ex-boyfriend, immediately springing to his feet and keeping away from any vengeful flailing hands that may pull him back into the fray. The circle of students that had manifested to watch the fight parted ways as Valentin and Kate Eloise walked down the hall and towards the doors.

“Queer? What’s that all about? Who said I’m queer?” Valentin rambled huffily.

“Just ignore him, Tin. He was a douche anyway.” Kate sighed.

The two of them left the school, finding James waiting outside for them. He joined them just as Danny came running out with vengeance burning in his eyes. But one look at James dressed in a black tee-shirt and dark jeans, holding Kate’s hand, eyes smoldering with a dangerous calm, Danny decided messing with either Valentin or Kate Eloise was a bad idea.

“Hey you guys,” James smiled. “How was school?”

“Good!” Kate beamed, big eyes fixated on him. “How was yours?”

“Just fine,” James said with a hint of blush flushing his cheeks. “Tin, what happened to your eye?”

Valentin had gotten a foot in the face while wrestling, and his right eye was rapidly darkening into a black eye.

“Oh nothing,” Valentin shrugged ruefully. “Just had to keep _prinsessa_ here from getting her hands dirty.”

James couldn’t help but grin, catching his little brother in a playful headlock. “That’ll teach those pesky boys to mess with our Kate!”

Valentin couldn’t help but be happy with James in a rare good mood. He laughed as he drummed his fists on his brother’s chest in good fun. “You bet it will!”  
            “Boys please,” Kate rolled her eyes. “I can take care of myself!”

“No ma’am, we’ll take it from here!” Valentin barked with mock seriousness, taking one of Kate’s arms in his.

“That’s right, ma’am! No need to worry!” James chimed in, hooking his arm with her other arm.

James glanced at Valentin, and Valentin back at him, and both of them broke out in a huge, impish grin. Together, they began skipping Kate down the street, much to her stubborn dismay.

“You two are acting like children!” She chided, struggling to keep a straight face as she was skipped along.

“Deal with it Ms. Kate!” James laughed, beaming at her mischievously.

She grinned back, and finally gave in, skipping along with the two Moriarty brothers, making their way towards Baker Street.


	39. Chapter 39

“Merry Christmas Sherlock Holmes!!”

Sherlock cringed, having been laying on the couch with his laptop, still in his morning robe and pajamas.

“Who let that monster in this early!?” Sherlock griped loudly, knowing very well who was responsible.

“Oh, lighten up Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson tsked as she delivered his morning tea. “I told him he could come over at any time!”

Valentin came running up the stairs, one hand holding his newsboy cap on his head and the other clutching onto a rather large present all wrapped in glossy red paper. He burst forth from the stairwell into the living space, the world’s largest smile glowing on his face, his clothes dusted in snow.

“Get out, Valentin!” Sherlock snapped in a bad-temper. “Come back in an hour or two!”

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson chided.

“But it’s Christmas, Mr. Holmes!” Valentin’s mood couldn’t be dampened in the slightest. “And it’s _snowing_!”

He immediately bolted up the next flight of stairs, bursting into his brother’s room and climbing onto the bed, jumping on it like a trampoline.

“Wake up wake up wake up!” He laughed in a sing-song tone as James was rudely awakened. “It’s Christmas James, it’s Christmas!”

James stuck out a foot and tripped his pesky brother, causing Valentin to fall onto the bed on his back. James immediately wailed on him with his pillow relentlessly. Valentin laughed, shielding himself from the cushiony blows with the present, slipping off the bed and backing out of range of his vengeful brother.

“Merry Christmas James!” Valentin beamed, holding out that now slightly battered present.

“What is it?” James asked huffily as he rubbed sleep from his eyes, slipping out of bed and into his slippers, snatching his robe off of his reading chair and donning it.

Valentin narrowed his eyes slyly. “I’m not telling! You can’t open it until Christmas morning!”

“Fine, fine…” James yawned, shuffling his way out of his room and down the stairs.

Valentin set the present on his reading chair and ran to keep up with him, unable to contain his excitement, unable to stop moving. James made it to his armchair in the living room before collapsing in it, arms hanging over each of the chair’s arms, feet stretched out so far he was nearly laying in the chair, held up only by his arms. Sherlock glanced at him, smiling a bit. Growth spurt. Nothing fit James well anymore. All his shirts were tight across his chest and arms, all his pants didn’t reach farther than his ankles, his feet had to squeeze into his shoes, or in the case of his slippers, spill out the back. For weeks, Sherlock watched as James tried out countless different positons in the chair, trying to find the best way to sit in it with his new, longer proportions, each position more comical than the last.

 _He’s growing up_ , Mycroft had commented when he had paid a visit. _Next thing you’ll know, he’ll have his own flat, and the two of you will be so caught up thinking on your own you’ll never think to visit one another. Say your goodbyes soon, Sherlock. That day will be here sooner than you think_.

“Here you go James,” Mrs. Hudson smiled as she handed James his morning cup of tea.

James gave her one of his rare, winning smiles, sipping on his tea, letting it wake up his brain.

“And here’s one for you too, dearie,” She said as she handed Valentin a cup.

Valentin beamed. “You’re a real treasure, Mrs. Hudson!”

She blushed modestly, smacking at his arm playfully. “You’re just a charmer, you are! I won’t have you wagging that silver tongue around here, you hear me?”

“Yes ma’am!” Valentin grinned ruefully. “But I just can’t help it, you being so wonderful and all.”

Mrs. Hudson threw up her hands, muttering to herself, quite flustered, as she retreated into the kitchen. Valentin continued to stand there and grin, hiding his smile behind his cup of tea as he drank the beverage.

Sherlock stood up from the couch, looming over Valentin haughtily as he returned his laptop to its place at the desk. Valentin followed him with his eyes, unfazed by his morning grouchiness.

“I don’t suppose you’re hungry, are you Tin?” Sherlock asked in monotone.

Valentin shrugged carelessly. “I could eat, yeah.”

 Sherlock sulked into the kitchen, opening the fridge and searching among the miscellaneous body parts and chilling solutions for something edible. He came out empty handed.

“I don’t suppose the Watsons are offering up breakfast, are they?” He asked as he searched the cupboards.

“I wouldn’t risk it,” Valentin replied gravely. “It’s absolute chaos back at the house. That’s why I got here so early; I had to escape before I was sucked into some deliriously boring chore.”

“There’s a nice little breakfast joint by Saint Bart’s,” James chimed in, finally awake enough to join the conversation. “Quiet place, not a lot of people there most of the time. Plus, we could swing by the hospital and see if Molly would like to join us.”

“It’s Christmas Eve Day,” Sherlock sighed. “Molly Hooper won’t be at work.”

James smiled knowingly. “You of all people should know better, Sherlock Holmes. Molly is _always_ at work.”

____________________________

Christmas Eve Day found Jay Moriarty back in the city, prowling the streets among crowds of last minute Christmas shoppers and an onslaught of chunky, powdery snow pouring down in blinding sheets. Jay shivered constantly in the blood-freezing wind, huddled up in his only coat: his worn out sweatshirt. Hands jammed tensely in his pockets, shoulders shrugged up to his neck against the cold, feet moving briskly down the sidewalk, shoes crunching snow, pant legs soaked  from the ankle down as the snow compiled quite a depth on the unkempt side streets that Jay now traversed. Head bowed and hood up, Jay pulled his hands from his pockets and held them, balled up, to his mouth, breathing out a precious amount of warmth onto them. It was no use. His fingers had long since gone numb and no extent of breaths could recover any feeling. Jay turned a corner and found himself walking directly into the howling, ripping wind, and immediately threw his hands into his pockets once more.

There were few days darker and harder to endure than Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Without fail, Jay had spent every last Christmas season on his own, always miserable, always lonely, always teetering on the edge of life and death. Nothing made Jay’s very existence seem more worthless and torturous than the days of organized family gathering and world-wide happiness. Most days, Jay found that there were plenty of other pitiful, unhappy, lonely people wandering around alongside him, but on Christmas it seemed even the thugs and homeless sat around with their families and bore smiles on their faces. Not Jay. Jay spent his Christmases brooding in some motel room, often with a gun in his hand and the big question dancing around dangerously in his mind: is it really worth it to keep on living?

A call came ringing in on Jay’s phone, which he fished from his jeans pocket and checked. It was his mother. Jay sighed heavily, answering the call and immediately hanging up; it was enough to inform her he was still alive without the heart wrenching sound of her trembling, worried voice on the other end, words slurred by the unimaginable amount of alcohol on her breath. _Are you coming home, Danny? Danny, please come home, baby. It’s Christmas…_

The wind became unbearably strong, and Jay ducked into a nearby alley to escape the torrent. Shivering uncontrollably, he ventured down the pitch black backstreet, mind wandering elsewhere as his feet travelled unconsciously. He was staring at the ground in front of him, unwilling to look up, when a blow to the back of the head caused him fall to his hands and knees. Immediately he was back on his feet, face to face with the beady eyes of the one man he had pissed off far too many times, and the barrel of the gun staring him down inches from his nose.

“ _Frohe Weihnachten_ , Moriarty.” He growled, a thin, malicious grin appearing on his face.

Jay reacted, but not quite fast enough. The gunshot rang in Jay’s ears as everything went black.

____________________________

“It was really nice for you to invite me to breakfast with you guys,” Molly blushed as she sat beside Sherlock, across from James and Valentin at their booth in the quiet little café.

“Glad you could make it,” James beamed, having grown incredibly fond of his coworker and longtime friend.

The four of them filled up on the hearty breakfast food, maintaining a silence very rarely broken by small chat. Sherlock was especially quiet, and Valentin too, who stared out the front window at the snow swirling down from the sky.

“Is Mycroft going to come tonight, do you think?” Molly asked no one in particular.

“Oh I doubt it,” Sherlock answered as he drank his third cup of tea. “Mycroft is not one for attending domestic gatherings.”

“Tin, was he invited?” Molly wondered.

“Hmm?” Valentin pulled his attention from the windows. “Oh, yeah, of course he was. But Dr. and Mrs. Watson don’t expect he’ll show.”

“Oh you never know,” Molly smiled at Sherlock. “There might be a Christmas miracle.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, looking to find Valentin putting on his newsboy cap and heavy coat.

“Going somewhere Tin?” He asked with a knowing smile.

He looked up almost guiltily. “I’m sorry, I hope you don’t mind, but all this snow… I _have_ to go play in it…!”

“Come on then,” James said with a fond smile, donning his own coat. “Let’s head to the park. You don’t mind, do you mista Sherlock?”

“No no, of course not,” Sherlock assured. “Go have fun. I doubt there’ll be any to be had at this Christmas party tonight.”

“Sherlock!” Molly elbowed him in the ribs crossly. “Be nice!”

She turned her smiling face to the boys who stood waiting obediently for a proper dismissal.

“Go on you two! Be safe! And don’t you dare be late to the party!”

“We won’t!” Valentin assured with his winning smile as he ran out the door, James following behind at a more mature pace.

The two brothers took off past the snow-drenched sidewalks and into the street, dodging cars that appeared out of nowhere in the blizzard. The snow was coming down so thickly that James kept losing sight of his brother, and then seeing him faintly as he picked up the pace.

Valentin was laughing uncontrollably, absolutely overflowing with a happiness that only he could achieve. Snow had always been a part of Valentin’s long, hard life, and his life just didn’t feel right without it. The minute they stepped into the park, Valentin was immediately on the ground, nearly buried in the deep snow as he swung his arms and legs to make a snow angel, sticking out his tongue to catch the flakes that came billowing down. James laid himself down beside Valentin, staring up at the powdery white sky and the snow that was falling down towards them. It was all very surreal, very comforting, even. With the snow absorbing all the sound, and the park all but abandoned in the poor weather, James and Valentin were both engulfed in a thick silence that steeped into their very souls. It was all so peaceful. James shut his eyes and let his mind drift away.

For Valentin, the deafening snow may have been peaceful in the present, but the whiteout drew forth memories he would rather not revisit. Bitter cold, ridged stance. Crunching boots echoing dully among the silence downpour of snow. Eyes straining to see anything more than a few feet in front of his face. Oversized trapper hat further muffling all sounds, fur fringe blinding the upwards peripheral vision into a fluffy haze. A quiet sound, quick and sharp, gone, absorbed by the snow. Again, quick sharp sounds, louder, closer. The sound registered. Gunshots, automatic weapons. Stance became more ridged, fear mixed in with the sense of duty. Someone pushed through the obscuring blizzard, another boy of about four, running as fast as possible through the knee-deep snow in his oversized clothes. The sounds came again, deafeningly close. The boy fell onto the snow, staining it a starkly bright crimson through the bullet holes punctured into his chest. Hands fumbling in large, furry pockets, shaking, terrified, eyes staring, waiting for the guns to emerge from the cover of the blizzard. Mitten-covered hands found it, brought it to a chattering mouth, chapped lips. He blew the whistle, loud and sharp, warned the others. The gunshots snapped viciously once more. Valentin turned on his heels and crunched his tiny boots through the snow in a mad dash to escape the invisible enemy.

“Do you have any cigarettes?” Valentin asked James, voice gritting with a tangible pain brought on from the memories.

“Yeah, sure thing,” James answered, concern filling his own voice, pulling his only two cigarettes from his coat pocket and offering them over to Valentin.

“Just one, thanks,” his brother said as he took one, taking next the lighter that was offered to him and struggling to coax a flame in the soggy snow and persistent wind. The cigarette took light after a number of tries and Valentin took in a long drag, his shaking hands becoming still as he smoked the cigarette to a nub.

“You alright?” James ventured quietly.

“Yeah,” Valentin answered, directly his thoughts away from his troublesome past and focusing them on his much brighter present. “I’m more than alright. Thanks _bratt_.”

____________________________

Nothing hurt quite like waking up to find yourself beaten and tied up to a chair in the middle of some drafty warehouse; this was no exception for Jay. He came to quite slowly, straining on his bonds to test their strength and rolling his head on his neck to relieve himself of his nagging stiffness, unable to see through the thick fabric tied around his eyes.

“Someone’s missing a delicate touch,” he laughed hoarsely. “Feels like you tossed me in front of a moving train.”

A fist came out of nowhere and smashed into his jaw, sending a jarring pain straight up Jay’s skull and shutting him up for a little less than a minute.

“Oh boy, I bet you decorate cakes for a living with those hands.”

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when his entire chair was flipped, causing Jay to hit the floor, hard, right on his face, the weight of the chair—metal—crushing down on him as he lay there helpless, a grin spreading on his face.

“Have I struck a nerve then?” He asked politely.

Thick, oil-reeking fingers clawed at Jay’s face and yanked the blindfold from his eyes. Jay blinked heavily as his eyes adjusted, realizing that this was no warehouse he found himself in. The room was fairly small, very dark apart from a single hanging light, and the damp concrete walls still clung to the faint stench of chemicals and gunpowder and blood. A innocent frown graced Jay’s bruised features

“Have I offended a cult? Is that what this is?” He strained his neck to look upwards at his captures who lurked just outside of the single light’s radius. “I’m deeply sorry, if that’s the case. I can provide generous compensation, I promise.”

A man stepped into the light, big and burly and tattooed to the very last inch, hefting the chair back upright and Jay with it. The stench of oil burned Jay’s nose again, and he immediately identified the man as the one who had removed his blindfold. Jay did his best to look at the man, but he stood behind the chair where Jay couldn’t quite turn to see.

“Is that it? Is this some cult stuff? I don’t mess with cults, believe me, not intentionally. So what are we talking about here? 10 K? 50 K? What am I looking at?”

“You’re not dealing with a cult, _Arschloch_ ,” came a voice from out of the dark, speaking English with a thick German accent, and oddly enough, a woman’s voice.

Jay frowned, quite intrigued, righting his neck to see a stunning young woman with straight, slightly-below-chin-length bleach blonde hair, piercing blue eyes accented by dark eyeliner and sultry eyeshadow, wearing a fitting black dress that just barely passed her waist, her pale face flawless and topped off with a glossy blood red lipstick on her lips. Jay took it all in the second she stepped into the halo of light, an amused, askew smile spreading across his face as his eyes looked up to meet hers.

“Oh I don’t know darling,” he said smoothly. “You look like every cult woman I’ve ever seen come out of Hollywood. Have you seen any of those Indiana Jones movies?”

Without so much as bating an eye, the woman smashed her fist into Jay’s nose, satisfied by the crackle of it breaking and the blood the gushed forth and dripped onto the ground like a faucet. Jay let his head roll back, doing what he could to minimize the blood loss this early on in their vicious tit for tat. A grin spread on his face once more. He recognized those bony knuckles against his skull; they were the same ones that had just about dislocated his jaw not a few minutes ago.

“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced, love,” Jay teased flirtatiously as he brought his head forward to look upon his stunning captor once more, eye sparkling with a playful calm. “My name’s Jay. Jay Moriarty. And you are?”

The woman snapped her fingers, and a man rolled in a cart with a machine drenched in wires. Jay’s easy smile fell from his face as he identified the machine, flinching as he thought of its purpose. The woman saw the change in his expression and smiled coldly.

“I’m your worst nightmare.”

____________________________

Christmas was in the air as James and Valentin made their way down the street of the development. All the similar houses were draped in colorful lights, and some of the more enthusiastic neighbors even displayed light-up statues and inflatable figurines. The Watson house was no exception; Valentin had helped John string up lights for hours on end as Mary kept asking for more. Valentin beamed proudly as they happened upon his home, and he could see all their hard work all lit up and twinkling in the soft sprinkle of snow that persisted into the evening.

“ _Krasivyy_ ,” Valentin breathed as he took in the full scene.

“Beautiful indeed,” James smiled. “Enchanting even. Makes you feel a bit warm and fuzzy inside, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Valentin agreed. “But not enough to beat this cold. Come on then _bratt_!”

Valentin took off up the driveway, jumping the steps to the porch and landing gracefully in front of the door, knocking excitedly. James was just catching up to him when the door opened, and Mary’s glowing face greeted them.

“There you two are!” She said in a voice that was both welcoming and chiding. “Come on in! You’ll both be sick as dogs if you stay out any longer!”

She ushered the two boys in, helping them to hang their coats and hats and gloves up to dry. James could hear the muffled sound of voices chatting away in the kitchen, coupled with laughs that cropped up out of the conversation quite unexpectedly. How odd it was that though James knew everyone who would be in the kitchen, their voices all jumbled together were strange to him, unfamiliar. But one voice stood out and caught James’ full attention.

“James! You’re here!” Kate beamed as she came down the stairs, face freshly powered and cheeks flushed from the warmth of the house.

“I’m here,” James smiled faintly, watching as she came to halt in front of him, only hesitating a fond moment before pulling him into a hug.

James allowed himself a bigger smile, hugging her warmly as the sweet scent of her perfume—generously applied—made his head spin.

“Get a room you two!” Valentin grumbled as he hung up his last article of winter clothing.

Kate pulled away from James, offering a smile to her surrogate brother. “And hello to you too, Tin.”

Valentin rolled his eyes, making his way to the kitchen to escape the awkwardness of watching his surrogate sister and his brother gawk at one another.

The kitchen was packed, tables and countertops invisible under the smatterings of countless dishes and plates full of this and that. All the empty space in the homely room was jammed packed with the Watsons’ friends, including Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper, Mike Stamford, Greg Lestrade, Phillip Anderson, and a few others from John’s workplace. Valentin weaved around small circles of conversers, easing his way effortlessly over to the desserts laid out at the corner of the countertops, camping out in the small nook and filling his cheeks with sweets.

He couldn’t help but smile at the hodge-podge group gathered for Christmas Eve. He loved everyone dearly, treasuring every last smiling face that had become a part of his life. Growing up, there was a heart-wrenching lack of smiles and friendly faces in Valentin’s life, but things were different now. Valentin had a family, not just his brothers, but also the people who cared: the Watsons, Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, Molly… they were the family Valentin never had. And seeing them all gathering and laughing and smiling, nothing made Valentin happier.

He was shoving another frosted sugar cookie into his left cheek when John and Sherlock came over to join him. Valentin smiled warmly, but his oversized cheeks gave away his crime.

“You’ll spoil your appetite, Tin,” John shook his head and he munched on a cookie of his own, a playful glint in his eyes that showed when he was being purposefully hypocritical.

“John’s right,” Sherlock chimed gravely as he popped a chocolate into his mouth. “Sweets are for adults only.”

“Ha ha. Very funny, you two.” Valentin rolled his eyes with a hint of a smile betraying him, continuing to indulge in the sweets.

He looked across the kitchen, leaning to see around the people crowding the room, seeing James and Kate walk in single file, hand in hand. Kate was grinning back at James, pulling him over to a table and chatting excitedly as she fixed him a plate of all the best foods. Sherlock chuckled, and Valentin looked at him to see he was watching the two of them as well.

“It’s good to see him smiling,” he commented.

John looked over, head spinning as he tried to see what Sherlock was talking about. His eyes fell on James and Kate standing together, laughing to themselves, and a unhappy groan escaped him.

“Problem John?” Sherlock asked with an upraised eyebrow.

“It’s nothing,” John said after an intense pause, eyes unmoving. “It’s just-…. It’s nothing. Really.”

“Don’t worry Dr. Watson,” Valentin patted him on the arm. “I’m keeping an eye on them.”

With that, Valentin slipped back into the crowds, squeezing his way around everyone and popping up beside James and Kate.

“Keep the flirting to a minimum you two,” he grumbled. “Dr. Watson is freaking out over all-” He motioned dramatically to the two of them. “this.”

“Flirting?” Kate scoffed anxiously, cheeks flushing red. “No one was flirting.”

“Lay off, Tin!” James glared, clearly not appreciating his intrusion.

Tin put up his hands in front of him innocently. “Don’t shoot the messenger, _bratt_.”

James shot him a serious glare, stormy grey eyes growing close to black. Taking a hint, Valentin slipped back into the crowds and found himself held captive by Mrs. Hudson as she pinched his cheek affectionately and displayed him to her friends. James couldn’t help but smile at the sight of charismatic Valentin becoming the center of attention in the group of aged women, all of them a little bit drunk.

“What an ass,” Kate hissed through her teeth, face still quite red.

“Forget him,” James smiled, taking her hand in his and lacing their fingers. “Let’s go see what sort of presents are under the tree.”

Her brilliant smile returned to her face at the idea, their food forgotten as she led him from the kitchen to the den, where a large douglas fir stood swamped by presents, the gifts having been delivered to the Watson’s by all parties over the course of the past few weeks. As soon as midnight hit, everyone would gather and open the their gifts. Just the thought sent butterflies of excitement fluttering through James’ stomach.

“How much longer?” James asked eagerly, eyes darting to find the nearest clock.

“Quite a bit,” Kate grinned cheekily, loving how enthusiastic he was about the holidays.

He smiled broadly at her. “I got _you_ the best present of them all!”

“Nuh uh!” She challenged with a tongue-touched grin. “My present to _you_ is the best!”

James crossed his arms stubbornly, leaning in until their noses were practically touching, a coy smile on his face. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see who’s right.”

Kate giggled, closing the distance between them until their noses were actually touching. “It’ll be mine.”

The two of them broke out in laughter, happy to have each other as company to fill the hours before midnight.

____________________________

Jay’s eyes followed the young woman as she strapped electrodes all over his body. Stripped down to nothing but his boxers and shivering in the damp cold, the electrodes were stuck to his chest, his stomach, his forehead, wrapped around his toes.

“Can’t really say I’m surprised,” he smiled, watching her completely ignore him and return to the voltage source the electrodes were hook up to. “Very popular torture method, this. Honestly, I would have preferred something more creative-”

His words were cut short of a jolt of electricity surged into his body, causing him to jump and cringe. The pain wasn’t bad, but the surprise of it all had Jay a bit rattled.

“Ooh, that wasn’t very nice,” Jay laughed hoarsely.

“Wait ‘til we _actually_ want to hurt you, _Arschloch_. You’ll be pleading for a swift death before we’re through.”

“Oh, but you don’t,” Jay smirked.

The woman’s face darkened at the expression. “Don’t what?”

“You don’t want to hurt me. Rough me up a bit, sure, but hurt me? No. That’s not what you were hired to do.”

Jay could see the wheels turning in her head, trying to manufacture a response. He didn’t give her the opportunity, throwing his head back in a hysterical laugh.

“What? You didn’t think I’d figure it out? It’s bloody obvious, blondie!”

“How so?”

Jay smirked again, looking into her icy eyes with a cold expression that gave her shivers. “Where do I start? Well first, there was the venue. Private little place. No disturbances, no footsteps, no voices, nothing. Most gangs, cults, the like, they either beat their victims in an abandoned warehouse of some sort—which this is not—or in the basement of their hideout—which this is also not. If it were, we’d hear some sounds of your lackeys shuffling about nearby. But like I said, it’s silent.”

“So?”

“So this is a private space. Efficient, safe, maintained by a third party. Yes, I recognize the lemony stench of Clorox. You Germans don’t use Clorox; which is a shame, by the way.”

She stood in silence, her arms crossed. Jay smiled and continued.

“Then there was the money. I sat here all tied up and offered you money, named off some very generous sums, but you didn’t bite. Clearly there’s a lot of money in this for you if you come through with whatever it is your supposed to do with me. Not only that, but you’re under some majorly strict terms of agreement. You could have easily taken my money, kept both the cash _and_ me and come on all the richer, but you didn’t do _that_ either.”

“None of that means we won’t hurt you.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Jay admitted with a defeated expression that quickly became a confident smirk. “But you know what it _does_ mean? It means you were hired. Hired by someone willing to pay you handsomely, but dangerous enough that you won’t try anything that deviates from your given instructions. Take _me_ into account and there’s only one logical explanation. Jim Moriarty.”

The serious expression on his torturer’s face didn’t change a bit. Jay frowned poutily.

“I _am_ right, aren’t I? Moriarty hired you. Now tell me: what for? What does the old man want?”

The woman looked to the tattooed man that stood behind Jay and gave him a nod. He pulled out a knife and cut Jay’s hands free. Jay simultaneously massaged the life back into his wrists and detached all the electrodes from his body, as a white envelope was shoved in his face. Frowning quizzically, Jay took the envelope and inspected it. There was nothing unusual about it, no scent of poison, no suspicious weight. He turned it to look at the front, where the name “Jay” was written in dark blue ink, the cursive letters neat, like someone paid extra attention to each letter as they wrote them. 

“What’s this?” Jay asked as he looked up at the blonde woman, who hadn’t budged.

“It’s for you,” she said dully.

“Yeah, but what is it?”

She shrugged her shoulders casually, clear that she wasn’t worried about what the envelope contained so much as that it ended up in Jay’s hands.

Jay stood up, holding up the envelope triumphantly, smiling a bit.

“Like I said,” he purred arrogantly. “You were never going to hurt me.”

“Oh no, we were,” the woman replied, a cruel smile ghosting on her blood red lips. “He said if you didn’t figure it out, we could even go so far as to kill you.” She sighed. “Honestly, I would’ve preferred the latter. I wanted to see you cry like a baby.”

Jay pulled his jeans back on, then donned his shirt and sweatshirt, positioning his hat on his head and slipping into his sneakers. “Sorry to disappoint, darling. Maybe you could stop by sometime later and I could give you your own private showing of these here waterworks.”

The woman fixed him with a vehement stare, her eyes hard as the ice by which they were colored. The tattooed man had briefly disappeared, and as several bright lights hummed to life, it was obvious why. Jay spotted his backpack sitting by the door and made his way over to it, slinging it on one shoulder. He looked back and smiled at the blonde and the tattooed man.

“This was a blast. Same time next week?”

Jay quickly ducked past the door and worked his way from the building back outside into the onslaught of snow. It didn’t take him long to figure out where he was, and make his way back to his motel, where eight cats were waiting for their supper.

Jay fed the cats and petted all of them affectionately, but his mind was distracted by the envelope that sat on the nightstand by the run-down bed. As if drawn by a magnet, Jay found himself sitting on the bed a moment later, envelope in hand. With one deft swipe of his thumb, the seal ripped open, revealing a plain piece of paper inside. Jay removed it, scouring the envelope for signs of anything else. Confirming that the paper was all the envelope contained, Jay cast the empty envelope aside and unfolded the paper, feeling his blood run cold.

____________________________

     It was quite a squeeze to fit everyone in the den, but with enough chairs brought in from the kitchen and enough people willing to sit on the floor or stand, they managed. Sherlock and John both stood in the entranceway, sipping from their Christmas ales as they watched the presents distribute among their friends. John’s work colleagues had gone home over an hour ago, as did Mrs. Hudson’s friends and the few extra guys from Scotland Yard who came with Lestrade. Mike Stamford, too, had gone home earlier than expected. All that were left were the really close friends, more like a family than anything else: John and Mary Watson, Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper, Lestrade and Anderson, and of course, Kate Eloise Watson, and James and Valentin Moriarty.

“This one’s for the both of you,” Mary grinned as she handed Sherlock a shiny wrapped box adorned with a glistening silver bow. Sherlock read the tag: To Sherlock and John, Love Everybody. Sherlock passed the box off to John, who took it and examined it from all different angles, trying to figure out what was inside without seeming to obvious about it.

“Alright, that’s everything!” Mary smiled, the douglas fir finally given room to breathe. “Merry Christmas, everybody!”

“Merry Christmas!” Everyone chimed back whole-heartedly. And then the unwrapping ensued.

Immediately, Sherlock and John tore open their combined gift, both of them anxious to know what it was. Sherlock frowned distastefully, pulling out a very ugly Christmas sweat with the words _BEST FRIEND_ _à_ knitted on the front. There was a second sweater, identical to the first but with the arrow below _BEST FRIEND_ pointing in the opposite direction. John looked just as confused as Sherlock, and the both of them looked up as a snicker escaped Lestrade. Everyone was watching the two of them, grinning from ear to ear.

“Do you like them?” Molly was trying not to laugh. “We all pitched in.”

“Go on!” Lestrade goaded. “Put them on!”

“Look, this is really thoughtful and all—” John began.

“Oh put it on, Dad!”

“Yeah, mista Sherlock!” James joined in. “For us!”

The two friends hesitated, but with much grumbling and a few uttered threats, the sweaters went on. Mary’s camera flashed as she captured the moment, catching a heated glare from John that did very little to dampen her high spirits.

“Oh quit your gawking!” Sherlock snapped at everyone. With a few more quiet chuckles, everyone turned to their own gifts and began unwrapping again.

James looked over as Kate Eloise squealed delightedly. She had opened his present, a heart shaped locket necklace on a dainty silver chain. He barely had time to flash her a smile before she had attacked him in a hug.

“It’s wonderful!” She breathed in excitement.

“You can put anything you want in there,” he said as she pulled away, unclasping the chain and putting the necklace on her. “Anything your heart desires.” He toyed with the locket as he said _heart_.

“Oh, I think I know exactly what’ll go in there!” She said mysteriously, quickly changing the subject. “Go on then slow-poke! Open mine up!”

James unwrapped her present, grinning as the paper ripped away and revealed a pristine hardback copy of Mary Shelly’s _Frankenstein_.

“I know it’s one of your favorites,” Kate blushed. “I wanted to get you a nicer copy. Your old paperback was getting pretty beat up last time I saw it.”

“Thank you, Kate,” James said sheepishly, a modest blush in his cheeks. “It’s perfect. It really is.”

They hugged again, both of them feeling warm and fuzzy from the holiday season and the room temperature rising from all the people packed in the small den. Pulling away, they continued to unwrap gifts and shell out heartfelt ‘thank you’s to everyone.

James couldn’t help but smile at some of the gifts. Lestrade had gotten a deerstalker cap, clearly a prank on Sherlock’s part. Someone had gifted Anderson a razor, much to everyone’s amusement. John hugged Valentin over the _World’s Best Dad_ coffee mug his surrogate son had surprised him with. James thought of Valentin’s present to him that sat in his reading chair back at the flat, making a note to open it as soon as he returned later that night.

In all the hubbub, no one had noticed that under the douglas fir sat something Mary had failed to notice. James went over to the tree, bending now and retrieving it. A slight frown graced his face. What he had noticed turned out to be two plain white envelopes with names written in blue pen with fluid cursive letters. One said _James_ , and the other _Valentin_. James’ mind began to race, stashing the letters in his sweater as Mrs. Hudson began to thank him for the new pair of oven mitts, decorated by Kate and himself. Putting a smile back on his face, he hugged the not-housekeeper affectionately before ducking out of the room in the chaos and slipping to the bathroom where he had seen Valentin go earlier. He got there just as Valentin was exiting, catching his brother’s immediate attention just with the concern clouding his eyes.

“Hey, what’s wrong, _bratt_?” Valentin asked quietly.

“I found these under the tree,” James said, pulling out the envelopes. “They’re addressed to me and you.” He handed Valentin the one with his name.

Valentin examined the envelope curiously. “Should we open them?”

“What else are we going to do?” Together, the brothers ripped open the envelopes and found a letter inside. James read his with an increasing sense of dread.

            _Merry Christmas!!_

_Hope you’re enjoying your holiday, because by the time you read this, it will be over. Pack your bags and do it quick. Warehouse, 1:30 AM. You either show up and let everyone continue on with their dull little lives, or you can stay put and watch them all die. Your choice._

There was no signature, but it was clear enough from the message who it was from. James looked up from the letter to see the panic flooding Valentin’s pale green eyes.

“What do we do?” He barely managed, voice strangled.

“We do what he says,” James said tersely, jaw clenched in anger and anxiety.

“But, everyone will notice us leave…” Valentin’s argument was beyond weak, his voice barely audible as he presented it, but he truly didn’t want to go. He was honestly just settling down. They both were.

“They haven’t noticed yet,” James sighed, hands running through his hair stressfully. “Look, if we just slip out now, hail a cab, we’ll be gone before they even notice us missing.”

Valentin’s hands gripped one another and fidgeted with nerves, but he managed a nod in his overwhelming dread. “Alright. Let’s go.”

The two brothers slipped down the hall, quickly and quietly donning their winter clothes and boots before slipping out the door. They bolted from the house to the streets edge, a short distance that was covered in a second due to their nerves. The snow had been falling for hours, leaving everything covered in snow apart from the street, whose black, salted asphalt contrasted fearlessly with the world around it. Thick flakes of snow still came tumbling down from the sky at a lazy pace, starting to stick to their coats and hats the longer they stood, staring down the empty street in search of a cab.

“Call one,” James ordered to his brother, handing off his phone. “Let them know its urgent.”

Taking the phone, Valentin wandered down a ways as he dialed the cab service. James stood with his head bowed, waiting, when the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Whirling around, he came face to face with Kate Eloise Watson, who had hastily thrown on her winter clothes when she had caught James and Valentin sneaking out the front door.

“What are you doing?” She asked hollowly, voice so full of sorrow that James could tell she had already guessed the answer.

“We can’t stay,” He said, trying to sound calm and light but his voice coming out broken and scared. “He promised to kill you, all of you, if we didn’t.”

“But if we tell the Detective Inspector, and Mr. Holmes, and my dad—”

James shook his head. “They wouldn’t be able to do anything. This is the only way.”

“But you can’t leave,” Kate choked, tears welling up uncontrollably in her eyes. “It’s not fair! You just can’t!”

James felt his heart ache, wanting nothing more than to reach out to her and cup her beautiful face in his hands and wipe the tears away with his thumbs. But instead who stood there feeling numb and frozen to the core, miserable as he watched her cry.

“I’m sorry,” he managed after a long silence.

“No, I get it,” Kate as she dragged her coat sleeve across her face to rid herself of the tearstains, an edge of anger in her voice that cut James to the bone. “Why would you stay? We’re so _boring_ , and you two can’t _stand_ being _bored_!!”

James shook his head again, feeling a rush of hot blood pumping out to his toes and fingers and flushing his cheeks. “You just don’t get it, do you?” He held both her hands and pulled her towards him, meeting her lips in a kiss. It wasn’t the greatest kiss, but it was their first, and it was genuine, and they both wanted it to last a lifetime. Instead, it was cut short as the headlights of the approaching cab threw them into the limelight.

James looked down at Kate and her furious blushing, jaw clenching again as his heart cried out desperately for him to stay, having to fight his own longing to do what was right. “I love you, Kate Eloise Watson.”

She stood there, her eyes darting up to meet his for a timid second before quickly falling back down to the snowy ground.

“Come on James!” Valentin called out in a whisper as he climbed into the cab.

Without hesitation, James let Kate’s hands slip from his, turning his back to her as he ducked into the cab and shut the door. With the word urgent still echoing in the cabbie’s mind, he punched the gas and wasted no time speeding the brothers away from their quiet life to the warehouse, leaving behind a young girl, standing alone in the snow, beginning to shiver. She didn’t move for several minutes. She wanted to wait there, rooted to the spot that James had kissed her until he returned to do it once more.

A voice caused her to start. “Kate Eloise! What are you doing out there?” It was Mary.

Kate turned to her mother, forcing her lips up into a big smile. _Just admiring all the snow!_ , she wanted to call back. Instead, the words got caught by the lump in her throat, and tears spilled out of her eyes without end.


	40. Chapter 40

James flinched as the vase smashed into the wall adjacent to him, his arms crossed, jaw clenched tensely as he watched the fight between his father and his brother.

“Temper temper, Jay!” Moriarty snickered, hands held in front of him in defense.

“Nobody threatens my mother and gets away with it!” Jay snarled, grabbing Moriarty by the lapels of his suit and yanking him close, Jay’s cold blue eyes glaring into Moriarty’s soul. Moriarty smirked. _You’re eyes are so much like your fathers_. The thought wiped the smile right off his face, looking at the boy he had raised with disgust.

“Really Jay? Your mother gets more threats than you hairs on your thick head. One more from me doesn’t matter.”

Jay pulled their faces even closer, his nose wrinkling as his glare darkened, fists clenching tighter on the suit. He held the glare, hissing in a sharp breath through gritting teeth.

“Nobody threatens my mother and gets away with it. _Nobody_.” He repeated calmly.

Moriarty turned his head and fixed Valentin with an intense, pitiful stare. “You just gonna let him kill me then, huh?”

Valentin fidgeted, the look on his expressive face betraying his reluctance. “Jay… come on…” He mumbled.

Immediately, Jay was storming over to his youngest brother, eyes flaming with anger, Moriarty forgotten.

“Oh, so you’re just gonna take _his_ side now? Is that it!?” Jay snapped, giving Valentin a powerful shove them sent him crashing into the wall behind him.

“Jay!” James snapped, fed up with his behavior. “Enough!”

Jay turned on James, approaching him with fists clenched. “You too, James!?!”

James’ expression didn’t change, his arms still crossed across his chest, still leaning back causally on the wall. “I said enough.”

Jay stood there, unmoving, able to throw a punch into James’ unafraid face and knock him clean out if he so wished. But a small voice in his head told him that James was right. He needed to calm down. He was getting out of hand. Jay’s shoulders fell back into a more relaxed position as his hands unclenched, chest still heaving from all the adrenaline. Moriarty frowned at the sight, shooting James a dangerous look. James met the look with a dark, even stare. They were not children who could be pitted against one another over petty disagreements. Not anymore.

“Dinner at six. Don’t be late. And I don’t want to see any of you until then, you understand?”

Without waiting for an answer, Moriarty turned and exited the living room, heading to his study.

Jay went over to Valentin, helping him off the floor and brushing him off. There was no need for a worded apology; Jay’s actions spoke much clearer. Valentin looked at his eldest brother sympathetically.

“He threatened your mom?”

Jay nodded. “Who’d he threaten for you? Sherlock? The Watson’s?”

“Everyone,” James answered. “Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade…. everyone.”

A low growl escaped Jay as his fists clenched again, anger overwhelming his senses. A minute later, the surge subsided and he relaxed again.

“We won’t be putting up with this much longer,” James reassured.

“I say,” Jay said, a dangerous glint in his eyes as he looked to his two brothers. “If he steps out of line one more time while we’re here, we blow him away right then and there.”

Valentin shifted uneasily.

“I’m sure he’d anticipate that,” James cut in, keeping his voice low. “Just stick to the plan. We try anything stupid, and we’ll never get the chance to try again. Alright?”

“Alright…”

“Yeah, sure….”

James nodded, satisfied, breaking into a meek smile. “So how was your Christmas, Jay?”

“Oh, you know,” he shrugged. “It was electric. A real sucker punch.”

James laughed, shaking his head ruefully. “As long as you’re alright, I don’t really need to know!”

“Did you bring any cats?” Valentin asked hopefully.

Jay broke out in a grin. “Only eight. Want to go chill with them?”

Valentin beamed. “You know it!”

Jay laughed, slinging an arm around either of his brothers’ necks affectionately, walking with them towards the door. “It’s great to see you two again.”

     “Likewise,” James smiled, almost forgetting his heartache, almost forgetting his grief. These were his brothers; these were his own flesh and blood. Still, it didn’t diminish the fact that he had left his family—the friends that cared so much about him and his wellbeing—back in London, without answers, without assurance that he was alright. But the smile radiating from Valentin’s face, the fierce love in the eyes of his brother Jay, it reassured James that things would always be okay as long as they stuck together.


	41. Chapter 41

     Time ticked by agonizingly steady. James found himself unable to do anything but stare as the second hand eased its way around the clock face with jerky motions, shoving the minute hand a fraction further along in its rotation. A cat sauntered past and ran its tail under James’ nose, distracting him for an instant from his trance. James could see his brothers lounging among the hoard of felines, faces blank, just as bored as James. They had been cooped up amongst their three bedrooms for hours, unable to access any other part of Moriarty’s mansion. It was a power play; every last one of them knew it to be true. Moriarty was trying to drive them to the brink of insanity, only to entice them with a task to do away with the boredom, knowing they’d do anything after a certain point. James pressed his palms into his eyes, stinging from the unbroken daze. They were all too clever to fall into such a simple trap, but it didn’t mean they wouldn’t succumb to boredom. James could feel it already taking a hold of him, manifesting itself in the hallucinations and psychosis that began to awaken. He could see it taking its toll on his brothers as well. Valentin was a twitching wreck, the glassy look in his eyes giving away his craving for stimulants, drugs. Jay’s face was clouded with unease, an itch to act upon his screaming impulses magnified by the dullness of their afternoon.

     The hours dragged on and the three of them got worse. Jay had taken to pacing between the three bedrooms, trying to get comfortable in one only to storm to another in his frustration. Valentin disappeared for a while, returning with shaky hands dusted in a fine white powder, pupils dilated, eyes shifting all over the place in paranoia. James wanted to keep an eye on him, wanted to ensure he was safe when he finally came off the high, but James was not above the effects of the boredom. The room was full of people, hallucinations, just hanging out and chatting. James was familiar with some of them, friends of his, and others were people he vaguely recognized as people he had killed. The mix set him on edge, possessed with preventing anyone from telling the others James had murdered them. It was driving him mad; every time he made eye contact with a victim, he could hear their screams ricocheting in his skull, filling his head and spilling out his ears. Each time it happened he grew increasingly tense. He had chewed his lip into a bloodied pulp, gouged his hands raw with his nails, pulled at his hair until it stood on end, but the pain, the real world, it was all just static, white noise, ignored for the more stimulating reality that displayed before his eyes. Jay stormed in, and a minute later stormed back out. Valentin had gone missing again. The hours ticked by steadily, knowing no mercy.

Five-thirty finally clicked into place. James was busy shifting among the people crowding his room, entertaining, chatting, begging for forgiveness, depending on the individuals. He bumped into a crowd that included Mary Watson, Sebastien Moran, and a thug of Moriarty’s James had killed a long time ago. He smiled politely at them, and he received a polite smile in return from all except Moran. He was frowning, solemn, perhaps even concerned.

“Get ready for dinner, mate,” He said in his low grumble of a voice.

“Dinner?” James laughed with a pained smile. Then he remembered, Dinner. At Six o’clock. With his father. James shook himself, and everything became a bit distorted, all the people a little less realistic, except for Moran.

“Yes, dinner,” He repeated evenly. “I figured you’d need time to put yourself together.”

James slowly anchored himself back to reality, taking notice of the blood in his mouth and the burning pain in his hands. He gave Moran a resolute nod, a sign to the concerned killer that he was alright.

“Yes, thank you,” James managed, a bit dizzy from a fresh wave of pain. “Tell the others, would you?”

With a nod, Moran left James alone to seek out the other two brothers. Slowly, James set about getting ready, shocked at the disheveled state of his room. He didn’t remember causing any mess, but the scene around him said otherwise. Opening the closet, James found several three-piece, high-class suits tailored to fit him. He picked one out and set about getting it on, admiring himself in the bathroom mirror. A crushing pain radiated from his heart as he thought of Kate Eloise, of the compliments she would giggle at him and the gentle teases she would make. Shaking the thoughts from his head, James set about cleaning up his hands and lips from all the blood, and styled his hair to a level of grooming he rarely visited anymore. He couldn’t help but stare at the finished product in surprise. Before, the overly groomed look had simply looked funny on him, far too sophisticated for a young boy. But now, at sixteen, growing into his once chubby cheeks and face becoming more mature, the look did him justice. Clean, business, classy. It all looked very sharp on James Moriarty Junior.

As he emerged from his room, he saw that dressy didn’t just look good on him. Jay was waiting in the hallway, groomed from the neck down, maintaining his shadow of a beard and styling his hair nicely. For a boy of eighteen, Jay could’ve passed as someone well established in their twenties. And a good looking someone at that.

The two of them waited in the hallway for Valentin to join them. It took him quite a while, but eventually he came out, dragging his feet, looking beyond exhausted with his blood-shot eyes and wild hair. It was a miracle that he even managed to don the suit.

“You alright Tin?” James posed quietly.

Valentin nodded once, casting his eyes down complacently, following the two older brothers down to the dining hall. The table was set to the t, with four plates set out in proper fashion, napkins folded elegantly atop them, silverware sparkling and perfectly parallel. Three of the spots were set at one end of the table—the head and the head’s left and right hands—and the fourth plate was set at the opposite head of the table. At this far spot sat Jim Moriarty, waiting patiently with legs crossed, a glass of champagne held in his held and swirled lazily. His eyes were fixed on the opposing end of the table where three spots awaited filling, his eyes not straying as his sons entered the room.

Silently, the boys took their places: Jay at the head opposite of Moriarty, James at Jay’s right hand, and Valentin at his left. A man emerged from the door leading to the expansive kitchen and poured champagne into each of the brothers’ glasses without a word. James searched the man’s somber, expressionless face and wondered who had been before he became a puppet. Two more men emerged from the kitchen, swapping out the delicate china plates for ones piled high with expensive fair. James followed the men with his eyes as they disappeared back behind the kitchen doors. His eyes strayed to Moriarty, who hadn’t shifted his gaze from the ambiguous far point on the table. Jay began to drink the champagne, and James gave it a try. His nose wrinkled as he swallowed hard. The flavor was at least pleasant, but it was hard to get down. He left his glass untouched after the first painful taste.

Nobody touched the food.

The tension was palpable, crawling on everyone’s skin, nipping short everyone’s nerves. Jay’s eyes burned relentlessly into Moriarty, and Valentin wouldn’t look up from the table, shifting in his seat endlessly. James was the only one who at least looked fine, even if he didn’t feel that same way. His calm visage displayed none of the inner panic festering inside him. He could still hear voices whispering to him, just a little too far to hear properly, just needing him to lean in ever so slightly to be heard. Instead James sat ridged, afraid. If he turned a deaf ear to them long enough, they would quit nagging. But with the silence of the dining hall and the tension gripping his spine, the voices in James’ head didn’t relent.

“The foods getting cold,” Moriarty whined in his thin, monotone voice. His eyes shifted from the table, the two dark circles burrowing into the brothers at the end of the table.

Not a movement was made to partake in the food. Moriarty took a sip from his glass of champagne before swirling it lazily once more.  Valentin’s entire body tensed an untensed as he fought against the crippling desire for more drugs. James wanted to talk to him, occupy his mind with conversation and ease his anger and pain, but James didn’t dare break the looming silence. Not with Jay as furious as he was, eyes tearing bullet holes in Moriarty, hand clenching so tightly to his champagne glass James knew it would only be a few precious moments before it would shatter.

A sigh came from Moriarty as he set down his glass, a look of perfect disappointment hovering on his blank face. “If I had known you weren’t going to eat, I wouldn’t have ordered dinner to be made.”

“You knew we weren’t going to eat,” Jay replied, coldly, evenly.

Moriarty’s eyes wandered to the eldest with a wayward disinterest. “Well I could have guessed as much.”

“You should have _known_ ,” Jay replied, setting his glass down as well, hands folding and elbows coming to rest on the table, chin placed on his laced fingers. “Have you really become so senile? So _careless_?”

The carefully displayed emotions disappeared, revealing a raw, powerful anger roaring in Moriarty’s dead eyes. He made no verbal reply, his eyes staring deep into Jay’s very soul, trying to rip it to shred. But Jay was no fatherless, unwanted child any longer. He held Moriarty’s gaze with blue eyes cold and unafraid. It seemed to last for an eternity. Then Moriarty took up his glass once more, leaning back into his chair and re-crossing his legs. Disinterested.

Jay smiled thinly, letting out quiet laugh through his nose as he picked up his champagne and downed the rest of it. At the sound of the laugh, Moriarty’s eyes snapped over to burn at Jay, only to find Jay lounging in his chair, looking elsewhere. Disinterested. Jim might as well have been shot through the chest; the visual hurt his pride that much. Jay was most definitely, without a doubt, outplaying him at his own game. However, Jim Moriarty didn’t get as far as he had come by giving up easily. From under the table he produced three thickly-packed manila folders, laying them out on the table. The sound of the thick stacks of paper thudding onto the wood and Moriarty’s deliberate motion of displaying them had hooked the attention of all three brothers. Having an audience, Moriarty presented his plan.

“I present the solution to your boredom, boys,” he smiled.

“Jobs?” James snapped, unable to keep the anger from his voice. “You seriously think we’re going to just roll over and work for you again?”

The smug smile was answer enough.

“We’re _not_ working for you. Not now. Not ever. Is that abundantly clear?” Jay’s voice maintained a calmness that was beyond terrifying.

“How ‘bout I let you three think about it? Sleep on it, if you will. We’ll discuss this in the morning.” Moriarty dismissed them with one hand, drinking his champagne with the other. “Go on then. Shoo.”

The legs of three chairs scraped on the floor as the brothers took their leave. Moran was waiting just outside the dining hall, escorting the three of them back to their rooms. As James went to shut the door behind him, he glanced at Moran. He was standing in the hallway still, his stance wide, leaning on the wall, shoulders relaxed, hands folded in front of him. A sinking feeling wormed its way into James’ chest. He looked to the other two doors, trying to warn his brothers, but they had already shut themselves inside. James swallowed hard. He wouldn’t be allowed to see them until morning. They would all three be very much alone.

For the first hour, Jay sat on his bed, crumpling up paper from a notebook and tossing the balls of paper into the trash across the room, his cats all but forgotten. He had unbuttoned his suit jacket and loosened his tie, sitting comfortably but tense just the same. Trying to think like Moriarty and get two steps ahead of him was akin to hunting a fox with dogs trained to hunt rabbits: everything he considered an advantage over Moriarty could just as easily be a planted bluff, every smirk on Moriarty’s face could be hiding fear just as likely as it was displaying confidence, every angry glint in his dark eyes could be legitimate rage or just a convincing act. Jay was coming apart trying to figure it all out.  Hands dug into his hair and pushed it into weird angles in his stress. His teeth began to ache from gritting them so much. He ran his thumb up and down an old scar on his hand subconsciously, his initial anger taking a backseat to his present thoughtfulness.

A knock rapped quietly at the door, causing Jay’s eyes to snap over from the wall. He stared at the door, wondering after a minute whether he had been hearing things, when it opened to reveal Moran waiting outside.

“Your presence has been requested,” he muttered thickly. Jay’s eyes narrowed at his tone, reading Moran like an open book.

“And if I refuse?” Jay tested, eyes trained to spot any subtle change to Moran’s features. “Would that ease your mind, old buddy old pal?”

“Quit trying to play this game, Adler,” He continued in his thick, even voice. “Just go see Moriarty.”

Jay stood, making his way deliberately across the room to stand in front of the assassin. At eighteen, Jay had a few inches on Moriarty, but Moran still towered a few inches over that. Thinking to himself that one day he’d catch up height-wise, Jay followed the surly guy back down the stairs and to Moriarty’s office. Moran stood off to the side, allowing Jay to have the honors of opening the door. Jay looked at Moran’s face once more, trying to read past his trained, stony visage.  At last, Jay stuck out his tongue through his teeth and winked, going through the glistening mahogany door just as Moran let slip a ghost of a smile.

“Jay,” Moriarty said plainly as the eldest entered the room. He sat at his desk, leaning back in his throne of a chair, legs crossed, apple tossed between his two hands. He gestured at the chair across the desk with his apple. “Please. Have a seat.”

Intrigued to say the least, Jay took a seat and matched Moriarty’s relaxed posture. “So what’s up, old man? Gonna try and win me over on the whole ‘working for you’ deal?”

“Oh, I know I don’t need to win _you_ over, curly,” he gloated subtly, eyes fixed on the apple oscillating between his hands.

“Yeah?” Jay smirked. “Do tell. How do you know?”

Moriarty’s cold eyes shifted to Jay, a smile playing at his lips. “You’ve been roaming around Germany for months now. Stirred up a little trouble with the gangs, sure, but no real action to speak of.” His eyes combed over Jay quite slowly, deliberately. “Any new scars, Jay? Any bullets wounds? Any good old fashion black eyes? Any broken bones?”

Jay was suddenly quite silent. Moriarty continued.

“Where’s the fun in that, huh? Why does someone poke at the fire unless they want to get burned? Feel that flesh melting on your fingertips, the rush of knowing you’re alive? It appears your fire’s gone cold, curly. But I’ve got another one right here,” he set his hand on one of the thick files he had presented earlier. “Big old fire, blazing out of control, ready for a little testing.”

Jay could feel himself dragged by the temptation, the promise of a rush, of danger, of living on the knife’s edge. He hadn’t noticed he had come forward to the front edge of his seat in his unconscious eagerness.

“Where would I be situated?” He asked quietly, as if James or Valentin might hear him.

“Powder keg,” Moriarty answered. “All those funny little countries chomping at the bit to start a war with one another. I have some people hiding out there, trying to avoid what’s coming to them. And some others who, with a little persuasion, would make excellent resources.”

Jay was biting his tongue with his front teeth, set on edge by the boredom plaguing the mansion, ready to jump and accept the deal; anything to get back on the streets and brush shoulders with death once again. But before the accepting words could come out of his mouth, Moriarty cut him off.

“But I did give you until morning,” He said, sticking the apple to his desk with a knife. “Don’t want to rush you. Go on. Go back to your room, curly. We’ll talk again after tonight.”

Jay felt a hand come down heavily on his shoulder, turning to see Moran waiting to take him back upstairs. Jay looked at Moriarty, searched his face. Nothing. Undoubtedly bested, Jay was marched back to his room and locked away like a prisoner. He sat in a daze, trying to figure out what exactly had happened in Moriarty’s office. Then it hit him: Moriarty had handed him the key. All he needed to do was take it and escape the hell of his dull mansion. All he needed to do was take the job and live a little again.

____________________________

Valentin entered Moriarty’s office, still fidgety from his earlier drug use. His father was lounging in his chair, cutting chunks from an apple with his knife and delivering them to his mouth on knife-point.

“Ah, my favorite Ruski. Do sit down, will you?”

Valentin eased his way over and sat down stiffly, eyes staring with unchecked fear at Moriarty, like a deer in headlights. “What is it?”

“What? I can’t want to see my own son?” He tsked teasingly.

Valentin shook his head. “This is about that contract.”

Moriarty looked to his apple as he continued. “I heard about the nightmares.”

Valentin froze up, mind racing. How could he know? He hadn’t told anyone, besides maybe Mary. And there was no way Moriarty could read his thoughts, see his dream… was there?

“It’s a shame, really. Haunting scenes from your past, faces long since forgotten. That’s the sort of thing that’ll weight down on you forever if you don’t nip it in the butt.”

Valentin’s eyes expressed the question that was hesitant on his lips.

“You know, these sort of matters are best dealt with by returning to the scene, giving yourself a new picture of what it’s like, a new memory to replace the old one. Then the nightmares subside.”

“You think I can just pop into Russia willy-nilly? Just to look at some old fence and say ‘Oh, this isn’t so bad anymore’?” Valentin scoffed.

“I’m actually quite certain you can,” Moriarty smiled, hand now resting on a thick file on his desk. “I have some work I need done near your old hometown. Nothing big, just some espionage, some watching, some listening. I could always have my local people take care of it, but they tend to be awfully forgetful when it comes to this sort of work. Plus, if you needed to go back to Russia for any reason, I wouldn’t want to deny you the opportunity….”

Valentin felt his heart flutter hopefully as his father’s voice trailed off. A little time away, a little time between just him and his homeland, it’s all he needed to reassure himself he was doing _something_ right with his life. But there was a price, not a very steep one it seemed, but still a price that needed considering.

“Well…” Valentin began, not sure how to put his words into a coherent sentence.

Moriarty cut him off before he had the chance. “Don’t go rushing into any decisions now, Tin. I said I’d give you ‘til morning. Why don’t you sleep on it?”

Valentin started as Moran’s hand fell on his shoulder. Standing slowly, eyes darting between the friendly, soft-hearted sniper and Moriarty. Then, without a word, he followed Moran up the stairs and returned to his room. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, a single thought bouncing through his jumbled head: _Just some espionage. How hard could it be?_

____________________________

James entered the office slowly, pushing the door open in front of him and pausing in the doorway. Moriarty was off to one side of the office, staring out the window, looking over as the door squeaked ajar. James gave the room a glance. Moriarty had been pacing. Strange, as there was no buildup of residue anywhere else to indicate pacing elsewhere at any other time, and yet not enough buildup along where he was standing to elude to it being a habit. Nerves. Nervous. Not usually, but in this instant, yes.

“James,” Moriarty said plainly, though a hint of pleasantry creeping in. “I’m glad you could make it.”

James took note of his outfit. He was no longer in a suit, no longer groomed from head to toe. His jacket lay strewn across his desk chair, his white shirt untucked and ruffled, his black dress pants crinkled from the pacing. His hair, too, had diverged from his usual, slick conformity and now looked ruffled, teased by nervous fingers. James felt reassured by the Moriarty that stood before him, not because he showed vulnerability, but because this was the father he had grown up with, the father that he had admired and cared for. This was the Jim Moriarty who had cast aside his mask and his crown and took a minute to live outside of the limelight. This was the Moriarty who would agree to telling bedtime stories; who would growl on the phone before tossing himself in a chair, hair a mess, exhausted; who couldn’t help but smile—genuinely, fondly smile—when James got frustrated; whose feet were ticklish just before the toes; who didn’t mind playing a little pretend every now and again. The Moriarty in the suit with the slick hair had driven James to insanity; the Moriarty with disheveled clothes and whacky hair brought him back from the brink.

“What do you want?” James asked, voice quiet, sounding hollow without the anger that should be there.

“You really like her, don’t you?” Moriarty replied, subtle emotions steeping back into his voice as he found himself relaxed around his favorite son. “Kate Eloise Watson.”

“I do,” James replied as he shut the door behind him, walking over to stand beside his father, joining him in looking out the large window displaying an expansive green field, turning blue as twilight began to settle in.

“She’s a little young for you,” he remarked.

“Mum was a little young for _you_ ,” James rebuffed.

Moriarty looked at James, a bit surprised. “I didn’t love your mother. Not like you love the Watson girl.”

“Oh, believe me, I know,” James replied bitterly, grey eyes becoming cold and stormy.

Moriarty turned to look back out the window, silent for quite some time. _She could’ve been so useful_ , he thought, wishing dully that he hadn’t put into play the events that had led to Missy Alistar’s death.

“I know you’re going to try and convince me to work for you,” James cut in. “Don’t bother.”

“I’m getting old, James…” Moriarty spoke very quietly, barely above a whisper.

James went silent, an ache coming to his chest, a lump to his throat. “So what?”

Moriarty shook his head slowly. “So nothing, I suppose.” He wasn’t about to admit he was beginning to feel a lot less untouchable than he used to.

Another silence came over them.

“How’s Sherlock these days?” Moriarty asked.

“He’s Sherlock,” James answered dryly. “Shouldn’t you know that, since you spy on just about everyone?”

“Spying only tells you facts,” Moriarty replied with a hint of wistfulness. “Meeting with someone, you get to see all the little nuances in their expression, in their posture, hear all the tiny breaks and inflexions in their voice. There’s no substitute for meeting someone face to face. And there’s nothing like it, reading people.”

“Is that why you wanted to see me? Just to read me like a favorite piece of literature?”

Moriarty looked at James, met his eyes, and they both couldn’t help but break into an amused smile; both their gazes drifted back out the window, smiles lingering.

“I wanted to see for myself,” Moriarty answered. “I wanted to see if you really did love her.”

“How would you know what love looks like?” James’ voice was bitter again.

“I’ve seen it a few times,” He responded meekly. “I know it when I see it.”

A silence settled in once more.

“Where’s this job of yours at?” James inquired, voice low.

“Ireland,” Moriarty answered evenly. “Resource gone rouge. I need it snuffed out.”

“And why can’t your goonies handle it?”

“This is a very delicate matter,” Moriarty replied, brow crinkling ever so slightly as it did when he was utterly stressed, a tick James knew well. “One that requires a deft hand and a little imagination.”

“Ah,” said James, understanding. “Your rogue resource has a following.”

Moriarty nodded once. “And they need a reason to displace their loyalty. Not a martyr.”

“How dangerous is it?”

“Not very,” Moriarty said, as if it were obvious. “It’d just be you and the target. My sources tell me that the following is mostly web-based. They don’t meet in person. And if things got too heavy, I’d pull you out.”

“And risk turning him into a martyr?”

“I’d rather a deal with a martyr than a funeral.”

“How thoughtful.”

Moriarty gave James a brief glance, being completely honest with him. “You’ve always been my favorite James. And maybe it’s the old age talking, but I’m not going to lose you. Not so long as you don’t give me a reason to want to.”

“Gee, thanks,” James rolled his eyes, though unable to help but feel a little bit special.

“It’s getting late,” Moriarty remarked with a sigh. “I have conferences to make with the Brazilian sect. How’s about you head back up to bed. We’ll talk about the job more in the morning.”

“Alright,” James yawned, heading for the door, pausing it as he stood in the doorway, ready to leave.

“Hey,” he mumbled quietly. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Moriarty responded automatically.

Somehow, it just felt right, the quick, unconsidered response. It felt natural, like the real goodnight of a real father. James glanced back at him, only to find Moriarty had turned his back to the door, dialing on his phone to arrange his conference. And for some reason, that disappointed James. Confused by all his sudden feelings reminiscent of nostalgic boyhood, James headed back to his room, crawled into bed, and lay awake, staring into the pitch black of his room. He strained his ears, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t hear the sound of Moriarty’s voice droning away on his conference call, a sound that had so often lulled him to sleep in the toughest years of his childhood. And for some cryptic reason, that made him want to cry.

____________________________

Moriarty was partaking in a light breakfast of different fruits and dainty pastries when his three boys joined him in the dining hall. He could tell by the look in their eyes what they were going to say before it was anywhere close to being said.

“Well?” Moriarty smirked through a mouthful of peach. “What’s the verdict?”

James glanced at his two brothers who flanked him, neither of them uttering a word. James looked to his father, taking in a deep, shaky breath before speaking for all three of them.

“We’re in.”


	42. Part VIII

The nights were growing longer and cooler as September creeped to a close. Lights dazzled the Watson’s den as a sizable group of teenage girls and guys all put their arms around each other and flashed their winning smiles for just as many cameras as there were teens. Dressed in the cutest shimmery dresses, the girls with dates clung to their tuxedoed boys while the dateless kept each other close at hand, giggling as if they were missing out on nothing. When the picture-taking came to a close, one of the picture-obsessed parents checked the time and announced the group should get going to the dance. The Homecoming Dance, that was. It was a big event for Kate Eloise and her fellow sophomore friends. Throwing on sweaters over their exposed shoulders and taking hold of their dates’ arms, the girls filed out of the small house on unsteady heels and made their way to the cars, parents following in their wake with car keys in hand. Only one of the beautifully gowned teenagers remained leaning in the doorway of the house, arms crossed, posture closed, quietly afraid. This was Kate Eloise Watson.

“You sure you don’t want to just ride with us?” One of her friends called back in their nasally voice.

“Come on Katie!” Another jeered teasingly from beside her boyfriend. “It’s okay to go without a date!”

“Really guys, I’m fine,” Kate assured impatiently with a big, fake smile. “I’ll meet you guys there. I won’t be long, I promise.”

Without needing any further coaxing, her friends drove to the school, taking the noise and the excitement with them. Kate was left in the night with only the quiet chirping of insects and a promise she was terrified would be broken.

As the clock kept on ticking, Kate found herself sitting uncomfortably on the steps of the front porch, staring down the dark, empty street leading into her neighborhood, hoping beyond hope to see something—a car maybe, or even someone on foot—coming up the street. Her hands held the note she had stared at many times in the week since she had received it in the mail. She gave it a betrayed glance, reading the single sentence that meant so much to her: _Homecoming?_

A hand touched her shoulder gently, a shadow blocking the light from inside the house that was spilling out the doorway.

“Katie dear,” Mary said quietly, sadly. “I’ll drive you to the dance, sweetie. You don’t need to keep waiting.”

“It’s fine mum,” Kate assured with tears welling up in her eyes. “Give it another minute.”

Another minute ticked by. And then twenty-nine more. John and Mary Watson had long since surrendered to allowing Kate to continue waiting. Kate sat with her head bowed, her letter crushed in a frustrated fist, tears spilling out of her soft brown eyes and onto the porch. He wasn’t coming. Why did she ever think he would? He had been missing for three years; why would he suddenly show back up for a silly school dance?

Her thoughts were interrupted as a car came roaring down the street, screeching to a sudden halt outside her house, the engine gurgling like a beast as it idled there. Someone ducked out the door on the driver’s side, off-balance in their rush, attempting to fashion a knot out of their loose tie. This someone looked up, spotted Kate Eloise staring from her front porch, and gave a huge, ecstatic smile.

“Hey Katie! Long time no see!”

“James Timothy Allen Moriarty Junior!” Kate snapped angrily, standing. “Where the hell have you been!?”

James held open his arms to her as she marched over, pumps held in her hand, only to have her shove him hard in his exposed chest.

“You’re just about as late as you can possibly be!” She glared.

“Sorry,” James said ruefully, grabbing the back of his hair in embarrassment. “The ferry from Ireland was delayed longer than I anticipated. Not to mention traffic was a bitch…”

Kate crossed her arms, pouting haughtily. James looked entirely different. His hair had been cut very short and was just starting to grow back out, his face had lost a lot of its youthful weight for a more slim, chiseled, mature appearance, and though his suit concealed much, he had most definitely grown a few inches and bulked up in the arms and chest.

“Eighteen suits you nice, James,” Kate mumbled, trying to keep up her anger.

“Sixteen hasn’t treated you too damn bad yourself,” he grinned.

Three years meant all the difference for the two of them. When he had set eyes on her last, in the falling snow of Christmas Eve, they had been kids. But now, dressed in the finest of clothes three years later, James was a man, and Kate Eloise a woman. Neither of them could take their eyes off of one another. James marveled at the brilliance of Kate’s fair golden hair and the intricate bun it had been delicately woven into; he lost himself in her beautiful, loving brown eyes and the rest of her fair face still freckled from summer; her dress highlighted curves in her waist and hips that James never knew existed. If he hadn’t been standing in front of the Watson’s house with the promise to meet Kate Eloise, he would have thought her to be some gorgeous stranger that would never even give him a passing glance. But here she was. His Kate Eloise. James almost forgot to breathe. He almost didn’t need to.

“Earth to Jamie,” Kate grinned knowingly, James mouth hanging open. “I said, are we going or what?”

James shook himself, further embarrassed. “Yeah, of course.”

James opened the passenger door on the 67 Impala Convertible for her, presenting the entrance to her with a cheesy grin. She climbed into the seat, giving his chest a playful backhand as she passed. He made his way around the car to the driver’s side, glancing back at the Watson house as he did. John and Mary were standing in the doorway, little more than silhouettes against the lights inside the house. James offered up a smile and a friendly wave before ducking into the car and turning the key, the engine roaring to life and putting a grin on James’ face. Kate was thrilled to see James again, and to see him so happy was cake.

He turned to her with a wild glint in his eyes. “Hang on tight, sweetheart.”

James punched the gas. The wheels threw up smoke as they fought for traction, and the car shot off down the street. Kate squealed in delight, the wind tugging at her carefully prepared hair and filling the car with the dewy scent of twilight. She looked to James, who was in his element, grinning from ear to ear, hands grasping and ungrasping the steering wheel eagerly. They were flying down the empty road, leaving the neighborhood behind in the dust. Kate wanted to keep going, to drive and drive forever and ever, just her and James, just like how they were now, but a single question was plaguing her.

“James, isn’t the high school in the _other_ direction?” She called over the roar of the engine and the wind.

“Yeah,” he shouted back, smiling mischievously. “Don’t worry about it.”

Curious, Kate shrugged it off, sticking her hand out the open window to feel the air rushing through her fingers, her other hand trying desperately to keep her hair somewhat presentable. James flipped on the radio and blasted _Hooked on A Feeling_ by Blue Swede until the car was overflowing with the song. As they drove into downtown London, Kate could see the people giving them looks as they disturbed the quiet of the evening with their blaring music and roaring car. She grinned impishly, turning the music up louder.

A few minutes later, James slowed the car down, turned down the music, and pulled up in front of a high-rise building, parking the car. Kate stared at the building that towered into the clouds, wondering what on earth they could be doing there. James came around and opened the door for her, offering his hand to help her out of the car.

“My heels,” Kate began distractedly, remembering her need for shoes.

“Here, these will be a bit more convenient,” James smiled sheepishly, holding out a pair of sandals.

Kate give him a look, causing him to rub the back of his neck and grab at his hair once again, unsure of himself. Smiling, she slipped on the sandals and took a hold of James’ arm, following him inside the building. It was a hotel. An extraordinarily elegant hotel at that. Kate Eloise gawked at the massive crystal chandelier hanging above the marble lobby, guided along over to the front desk by James.

James had a quick, friendly word with the concierge at the desk and the man immediately hopped up from his station and led them over to the glass elevator, taking them up to the top floor. They emerged into the fanciest penthouse restaurant in all of London, Kate blushing from all the high class ladies in their fancy dresses and immaculate hair, suddenly overly conscious of how windswept her hair had become from the car ride, her bun messy at best and countless hairs hanging freely and sticking out at funny angles. However, she didn’t have long to dwell on the matter. James tugged her arm gently as the concierge kept walking, and the two of them followed. He swiped his ID card and gained access to a tiny stairwell leading upwards. They climbed the stairs and emerged onto the roof of the building, where a quaint little table for two sat amongst a sea of twinkling candles, backed by the most breathtaking view of London Kate had ever seen.

Kate stood awestruck at the sight, completely disbelieving her eyes as James slipped the concierge a generous tip and the man disappeared back down the stairs. James then wandered sheepishly in front of Kate’s slack-jawed stare, a shy smile on his face, eyes darkened with uncertainty.

“Is this…. is this alright?”

Kate looked at him, coming to her senses, her shock turning into overflowing excitement. She squeaked with utter delight, throwing herself at James and wrapping her arms around his neck. He laughed, twirling her around.

“Is that a yes then?” He asked as he set her down.

“Hell yes it is, you stupid asshole!” She laughed, still in awe, not sure how to react. “How in the _world_ did you afford this?”

“My job is what you might call ‘high risk, high reward,’” James smirked, anticipating the punch that Kate threw at his arm.

“James, you’re the biggest dick-headed idiot-” She didn’t get to finish, cutting herself off as she pulled James into a kiss.

She grinned from ear to ear, James having to bend awkwardly as Kate stayed flat on her feet, not letting him go for a second, becoming highly evident to both of them just how much he was missed by her. James scooped her up bridal style, not breaking the kiss as he carried her over to the table and set her down gently in a chair. Kate broke the kiss, smiling brightly as her cheeks flushed red. He smiled back, face just as flushed as he produced a cassette tape from his suit, causing Kate to break out in amused laughter. He stuck the tape into the old fashion boom box that sat amongst the candles, listening as the first bars of _Fooled Around and Fell In Love_ by Elvin Bishop came crackling out of the ancient device.

He sat in the chair across from Kate Eloise, and the two of them sipped their drinks and caught up with one another, eating once a waiter—who was quite friendly with James—brought them food. Kate couldn’t help but feel a little bit smug, admiring the view from the roof of the high-rise and thinking of her obnoxious friends, spending their night cramped in some gym full a hundred other sweaty high school kids. She turned to find James smiling at her, his playful grey eyes twinkling in the candlelight. 

“So what do you say?” He asked, leaning his elbows on the table. “Am I forgiven for being late?”

She leaned close to him, a mischievous grin spreading on her face. “Only if you out-dance all those assholes waiting back at the school.”

James grinned broadly. “Oh absolutely!”

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Kate smirked. “Let’s get going!”

“Yes ma’am!” James laughed, pulling out enough cash from his suit jacket to cover the dinner and then some, taking the hand of his date and leading her back down to the ground floor of the building and out to the convertible, sweeping her off her feet and tossing her into the passenger seat screaming a bit in surprise. James vaulted into his seat from the other side, laughing as Kate smacked him upside the head; he started the car, squealing away from the building and burning rubber back to the high school.

All heads turned as Kate Eloise Watson entered the dance floor arm and arm with her fabled date, a stormy, handsome eighteen-year-old who looked like something right out of a magazine with his tailored suit and styled hair. Immediately Kate grabbed a hold of James’ hand and dragged him further into the gym, stopping only to dance. And though James was no at all gifted in the ways of choreography, a promise was a promise, and he did his very best to out dance every last tuxedoed teen present. It was as if the two of them were the only ones in the world, dancing with one another oblivious to anyone else around. They slow danced like no others, faces inches apart and gazes brimming with love for one another. The soft affectionate look that James gave Kate made all the girls question the quality of their relationships; the happiness radiating from Kate’s face was enough to make a guy wonder what he was doing wrong with his girl.

As time went on, the people still attending the dance dwindled, until the eleven o’clock hour finally struck and the DJ shut down for the night. Kate watched as everyone began to shuffle out of the gym, turning to suggest to James they do the same to find him gone. Looking around frantically, she found him chatting up the DJ and slipping him his cassette tape along with a hefty chunk of cash. James returned to Kate’s side with a knowing smile.

“What are you doing?” She asked, grinning.

“Oh, you’ll see.” He grinned back.

As soon as the last straggling teenagers left the gym, the DJ began to play the classics off of James’ cassette tape and James took Kate around the waist for another slow dance. With a bright and wonderful smile, she took his hand and his shoulder and leaned on his chest.

“I’m so glad I have you, James…” She breathed happily.

“I’m the luckiest guy in the world to so much as have your attention, Kate Eloise.”

“Yeah? Well just wait until you get a wink from some supermodel or something. Then you’ll forget all about me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” James said firmly. “I’d tell her ‘Look here, lady I’ve got myself the finest gal you ever did see, and you best not be throwing winks my way anymore!’”

Kate snorted. “Oh yeah?”

“That’s a promise. I’m yours, Ms. Kate Eloise Watson, so long as you will have me.”

She gave his hand an affectionate squeeze. “Always, you dick-head.”

She looked up from his chest to see him smiling down at her, his face clouded with worry but smiling all the same. She loved him for that, for being the saddest boy she’d ever known and yet still being the most caring and selfless too. With her heels on, it wasn’t quite the stretch that it was on the roof of the high-rise. Kate wrapped her arms around James’ neck and pulled him in for a tender kiss, lasting until the song came to a close, and right on through the encore.

By the end of the night, Kate Eloise was ready to pass out. After leaving the school, James had taken her for ice cream, then drove out of downtown London to give her a breathtaking view of the stars. She was finishing the last bits of her sorbet as he drove her back home, the convertible top put back up after the night went and got chilly on them.

“James?” Came her sleepy, quiet voice over the gentle purr of the engine.

“Yeah?”

“How long are you going to stay with me this time?”

There was a pause, the kind of silence that broke Kate’s heart.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” The words were painful for her to get out.

“I’ll be back,” James promised earnestly as he pulled into her neighborhood and approached her house. “I’m just out in Ireland, and things are going real well with this contract I have….”

He pulled up in front of her house, parking and helping her out of the car as he continued.

“It’s going so well, in fact, I’ll be able to take trips to London every weekend now. And then, it’ll only be a little while before the contract’s up and I’ll be back for good and-”

James was cut off as his phone rang, and he fished it from the pocket inside his suit, checking the number. By the dark frown that came over his face, Kate knew that it couldn’t be good.

“Hello?” James said as he answered the call.

“James,” came Jay’s voice on the other end, frantic and angry all at once. “James I-…. James you need to get Sherlock-…. James-….”

“Calm down,” James instructed, barely calm himself; his brother was never shaken up by anything. “What’s wrong? What do you need?”

“It’s my mum,” Jay answered, voice trembling with fear and unchecked rage. “Irene. She’s-…. James it’s not good. James, please, I’m begging you, get Sherlock and get yourself over here now!!”

“Please Jay, I need you to just calm down!” James was suddenly just as frantic. But his plea fell on deaf ears. The line had clicked to a close. James looked up, eyes full of fear, looking to Kate Eloise.

“Go,” she instructed firmly, without hesitation. “Do what he said. Get Sherlock, and the two of you go to him. You hear me James?”

“But-” He stammered, looking to her apologetically.

“No buts,” she affirmed, knowing the reason for his hesitation. “This is more important than a few more hours with me. I understand, James. And I need you to go.”

James nodded, wasting no time hopping back in his car and revving the engine to life, dialing Sherlock as he put the car into gear. The tires screeched and burned on the asphalt as the car gained traction and leapt away down the road, leaving Kate Eloise in the dust.


	43. Chapter 43

Sherlock and James couldn’t get to Jay fast enough. Mycroft’s private jet landed at _l’Aéroport de Caen-Carpiquet_ in Normandy and the two of them took a cab to the location of Jay’s last call, a _Hospital de Jour_. They were led to the room where Irene was put, entering to find Jay an absolute mess. He was pacing madly, his hair disheveled and teased, his eyes huge and wild, his clothes torn and stained with blood, a glock pistol held tightly in his hand. Irene was unconscious in the hospital bed, very pale, her body covered by a blanket up to her chin. As soon as they entered, Jay moved like a flash and threw the door wide open, pistol aimed in paranoia. The nurse leading Sherlock and James cried out in fear, but neither two guys so much as flinched.

“It’s us, Jay,” James snapped, becoming short-tempered in his concern. “Put it down.”

Jay remained unflinching for a moment longer, the wheels turning in his frazzled brain and finally clicking into place. He tucked the gun into the back of his pants and immediately looked ten times worse without the alertness in his eyes. James was mortified by the Jay before him, the Jay who was broken and frightened and close to tears. Jay was twenty years old, but he seemed more like a spooked child than an adult.

“Jay, we’re going to need you to sit down,” Sherlock instructed, watching as Jay backed slowly into an armchair in the corner of the room. “Tell us what happened.”

Jay couldn’t keep his mind quiet, barely hearing Sherlock over all the din. Everything he had seen, heard, felt, sensed, it was all running through his head, turning into theories and conspiracies that were all just as eerily plausible as they were ridiculously impossible. But above all else there was a coldness, seeping into his very soul, like being so thoroughly drenched in water that you feel it impossible that you would ever dry out. Just one look, one glance at his mother laying so still in her hospital bed, it was enough to trigger it, to deepen the void in his chest and intensify the unbearable chill. The void kept trying to fill itself with something, _anything_. First it was anger, a frothing, blinding rage, then it worry, anxiety, maddeningly terrifying, and now there was something of a guilt, a depression beyond self-loathing that shook Jay to the core and caused him to cringe in physical pain.

“Jay,” Sherlock’s voice cut through to him. “Tell us.”

Teeth clenched, every fiber of his being screaming against the thought of revisiting the events that had sent him spiraling so far, Jay began to speak, very slowly, very carefully.

“We were just-…. It was a normal day, you know? She was downstairs doing God-knows-what, and I was upstairs just relaxing, doing a bit of reading, petting the cats…”

In a blinding flash, it all came back to him, shocking him like being thrown into freezing water. He didn’t just remember. He was reliving it. In his room, petting his cats, nose buried in a book. His heart ached to think of her, so distracted, so unprepared. Bullets: the sound of the guns rattled in his skull, and immediately he was running for the stairwell, gun already found its way into his hand. The guns fired again, deafening, sinking themselves into his chest. The impact threw him off balance, the blood gushed and soaked his shirt, but he felt no pain. _It’s just a memory_. He shot his gun, taking out all four men in his sights, sliding down the stair railing to get to his mother faster. The panic was beginning to spread from his heart, infecting his blood and creeping its way to his fingers and toes. _I have to hurry. Any second now, I’ll go into shock. And then I’ll be useless_.

Parlor. Two men. Two shots. Two corpses. He rushed into the next room, the study. Eerily empty. Then it shook his skull again. Gunshots. One by one, pistol shots. Then more sporadic fire. A scream tore from his lungs. He was screaming for Irene, desperate to see her face, see she was okay, because he knew she was not. He felt weightless as he ran across the house, knowing the pain was tearing through him from the bullets buried in his chest, gasping for breath, a lung collapsed. He remembered it all so clearly, but he felt none of it now. _It’s just a memory_. Dining hall. Two more men. A bullet exploded a skull, and his gun handle smashed another. Kitchen. _Oh God no_. Here it was. This was his undoing. He braced himself as he looked around the counter island, finding the bright red pool of blood popping out against the white linoleum floor. _Oh God._ There she was, unmoving, pale as a ghost, her dress turned crimson. _I can’t breathe!_ The blood was filling everything now, frothing over into his mouth. He was choking; he didn’t remember falling to the floor, but here he was, on his hands and knees, without the strength to stand. His strength was meant for one thing and one thing only. He tore apart his shirt, the hem of his mother’s dress, anything he could use to stop the bleeding. Chest compressions. _Was it working?_ He couldn’t see through the tears. His vision began to fade as time went on without breathing.

Footsteps. He rolled over, gun held steady in his hands, finger too weak to pull the trigger. The barrel of the gun stared him down, and then lowered. Jay glared, absolutely furious, driven by an animal urge to tear apart the men who had touched his mom. But blood shot from the man’s chest, shot four times, falling to the ground. And then Jay blacked out. _I woke up in the hospital._ He had been livid, tearing out his IVs, jumping from bed, menacing everyone with his pistol until he was shown to his mother. As soon as he saw her, laying so peacefully, cleaned up, heart rate monitor beeping steadily, he broke down and cried. _I’m so fucking scared, mum. Don’t do this to me._

“It was intruders,” Jay finally managed as he broke away from his vivid memories. “They broke in, gunned her down. I killed them, got her to the hospital, called you guys. And here we are.”

Sherlock couldn’t have been more concerned in his life. Not only was Irene hospitalized, clearly targeted by someone dangerous, but now Jay was traumatized. He knew by the glossy, distant look in his eyes, how they drifted from reality, reliving the trauma until it was no longer traumatizing. But it would always be traumatizing. Jay would be caught in the deadly cycle forever if something didn’t change.

Jay’s eyes shifted over to James, who was sitting quietly, afraid, anxious. “Hey, want to come and grab some snacks with me?” His voice was dangerously level, conveying his desire to talk.

James immediately got to his feet, following Jay into the hallway, and then the elevator. As soon as the doors slid shut, Jay began talking, and fast.

“The men who broke into my home, attacked my mum, they all had these marks on their arms. Tattoos. Of three snakes intertwined.”

James felt his blood run cold, mouth going dry. “Three snakes? But that’s the cult that-”

“That’s run by your client in Ireland. I’m aware.”

“Jay, there was no talk of such a thing happening! I-I-If I had known, I swear I-I would’ve-”

“I know you didn’t know.” Jay cut in. “This is all a set up. Someone wanted this to _look_ like your client ordered for Irene’s death. Someone wanted us at odds with one another.”

James could barely contain his frustration when he realized. “Moriarty.”

The elevator doors dinged opened and the two of them walked into the lobby. Jay paused, looking at the people sitting there, hesitant.

“There are some vending machines just down the hall,” he said off-handedly, handing over some cash to James. “Get me something good, would ya?”

“Yeah,” James answered, giving his brother a questioning look before heading down the hall. He bought them an assortment of chips and candy and sugary drinks, returning to the lobby to find Jay in the midst of a quiet conversation with a beautiful girl of his age. James could just make out what they were saying.

“You sure you’re alright?” The girl was whispering, sounding very anxious, toying with Jay’s bloodied shirt.

“I’m perfectly fine, thanks to you,” he answered just as quiet, caressing her cheek with one hand as he brushed a loose hair behind her ear with the other, a faint smile trembling on his lips. “Take care of yourself, alright? And be sure to call.”

She nodded as she looked down, tears in her eyes when she looked back up, spotting James staring in their direction. Jay immediately broke away from the girl, walking over to James as if nothing had happened.

“I got you some crisps,” James said as his brother came over, waiting to see if Jay would explain who he was talking to.

“Thanks,” He said dryly, taking the bag and heading into the elevator.

James followed, knowing that if Jay wasn’t going to talk about it on his own, it would only make him angry to ask him about her. James smiled a bit to himself; he had his hunches.

As the elevator clicked shut, Jay began talking again.

“Time’s up. We can’t sit around and wait for a more perfect opportunity. We take Moriarty out _now_.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” James replied without hesitation. If Moriarty had sent people affiliated with James’ contract to attack Irene, he could only imagine a similar attempt would be made on Kate Eloise. And James wasn’t about to sit around knowing that was the case.

“Do you think Valentin will be in?” James asked.

“I’ve talked with him. He’s pissed. Turns out his contract was some sort of trap. It’s taking him some time to get out of Russia, but when he does, we finish this once and for all.”

The elevator doors pulled open and two doctors got in, hitting the top-most floor and standing to the back of the elevator. James eyed them curiously, noting every last detail. Spotless coats. Quite the muscle definition with men with office jobs. Not to mention their IDs identified them as clerks, but their gear suggested otherwise.

“Sloppy,” Jay growled, obvious he had noticed as well.

The word was barely out of his mouth before he hit the first doctor in in the face, smashing in his nose and rendering him unconscious. The other doctor pulled a gun, but not before James had pulled his and put a bullet into his heart. The elevator dinged and opened on the top floor, an empty storage area. Silently, the brothers slipped on the gloves of the fake doctors and dragged their bodies to a closet full of mops, tossing them inside and jamming the door shut. Pulling off their gloves professionally, they re-entered the elevator and punched the floor that Irene was on. It was silent for a minute, and then Jay began to laugh through his nose.

“Since when do _you_ of all people carry around your gun?”

“Since always,” James defended, a bit hurt. “You knew that!”

“Job got you paranoid, Jamie boy?”

“Oh shut it, holes. You’re one to talk.”

The silence resumed, until Jay elbowed James lightly.

“Hey, nice shot.”

“I’ve been practicing.” James winked, exiting the elevator as it opened back up and inconspicuously tossing away the gloves in a nearby trashcan.

When they got back to the room, Sherlock was one the phone; it was evident by the displeasure in his face that the man on the other end was none other than Mycroft Holmes.

“Jay!” Sherlock sighed in relief. “Here. Mycroft wants to chat.”

Jay took the phone, stepping out into the hallway. “What’s up Laura Croft?”

“Always with the nicknames, Daniel,” Mycroft sighed. “Must you be so immature?”

“My mum just about died,” Jay seethed. “Emotional outbursts are to be expected of me.”

“Point taken.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to be sure you’re safe.” He hesitated audibly. “And that you’re not thinking of doing something… _stupid_.”

Jay couldn’t help but smirk. Of course he knew! “Oh don’t worry about me, Mama Holmes. I think I have things under control.”

“Daniel, I’m serious.”

“And so am I!!” Jay snapped, playfulness gone. “You’re not stopping me. If you even do much as _attempt_ to interfere, I will certainly not hesitate in disposing of you, too. And I’m sure James wouldn’t mind very much, either. I know you two have a history. And I’m not above exploiting that if that’s what this all boils down to.”

Jay lowered his voice menacingly, having never been more serious in his life. “Don’t get in my way, Mycroft. I _will_ kill you, family ties aside. And don’t bother trying to convince Sherlock to change my mind. I’ll put a bullet in him faster than you can say ‘cake’. This is between me, my brothers, and Moriarty.”

“What brothers, Daniel?” Mycroft sneered. “You share no blood with them. Us, on the other hand-”

“You’ve been warned Mycroft. I should hope you’ve learned how to take me seriously by now.”

Jay ended the call, composing himself a second to wipe the anger off his face, returning the phone to Sherlock with a half-smile.

“Sorry, I think your phone might be saturated with estrogen after that talk,” he laughed. “Good old Mycroft, always the mother hen.”

Sherlock pocketed the phone, eyeing Jay cautiously. He could see right through all his little acts and games. He knew just how angry Jay was, and he knew just that sort of plans were running through his clever head.

“I want you to know something, Jay,” Sherlock began.

“Not now, Sherlock,” Jay cut in, looking to find Irene beginning to stir, a pang of guilt running through him like a knife. How devastated would she be to hear her son had gone and gotten himself killed avenging her? “Could you stay with Irene? She’s gonna need someone when she wakes up…”

“And where are you going?”

“We need to pick up Valentin,” he replied curtly.

“He can’t drive,” James added quickly. “But he wanted to see Irene. We said we’d pick him up.”

“Yeah,” Jay said, nodding at James. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

Without waiting to hear what sort of objection Sherlock could think up, Jay marched out of the room. James looked at his brother and then back at Sherlock.

“Don’t worry about us,” James assured, though unable to hide his worry. “Honestly, everything will work out.”

And with that, he followed after Jay, just making it into the elevator.

“Where are we actually going?” James asked.

“What do you mean? We’re picking up Valentin.”

“Oh,” James said, surprised. “Really?”

Jay nodded. “And then it’s straight to the old man.” He held up his gun, cocking it. “We’ve got a bullet to deliver to his black heart.”


	44. Chapter 44

James was staring out the car window, eyes peeled in search of Valentin, who had said he’d be waiting along a particular stretch of highway in Belarus. As Jay drove them down the stretch, James became anxious to spot his little brother, as the weather had turned foul and freezing rain began to pour. Jay suddenly slowed the car down and pulled over, and James squinted through the rain-soaked window at the unkempt homeless guy gathering his things to catch a ride with them.

“What are you doing?” James growled at Jay. “We’re supposed to pick up Valentin! And it’s _freezing_!”

“What are you talking about?” Jay answered dryly. “That _is_ Valentin.”

“About time…” came the hoarse voice of the homeless man as he entered into the back seat, tossing his duffle bag in before him.

James looked back at his scrutinizing. The voice _did_ sound oddly similar to Valentin’s, but it was deeper and much more angry. James stared for a long while, and slowly everything fell into place. The guy’s hair was not brown like it appeared to be, but rather blonde and caked with dirt and sweat and grime; his clothes that appeared rags were really a nice suit just as filthy as his hair, and torn and tatted to near shreds. The slight grimy scruff of a beard was throwing James for a loop.

“Valentin?” He said in disbelief.

“Hey _bratt_ ,” the man smiled, and suddenly Valentin shined through all the layers of muck that had disguised him so well.

“My God, you look awful!” James wrinkled his nose.

“Believe me, I know,” Valentin grumbled. He was used to maintaining a much more groomed appearance, but desperate times had called for desperate measures. “Important thing is I made it out in one piece. Well, most of one piece, I suppose.”

“We’ve got time for one stop and one stop only,” Jay cut in, eyes fixed on the road. “Let’s make this count, and get you cleaned up, Tin.”

The ride out of Belarus was long and quiet, the tension thick between the three brothers. James had never seen Valentin so angry, and wanted to know what had happened that had made him that way. However, every last attempt at conversation with either of his brothers left James feeling like he was trying to communicate with brick walls. Night was closing in when they finally pulled up to a ramshackle motel in L’viv, Ukraine. Jay went inside alone and came back with the key to a room, walking ahead of his brothers and unlocking the door. As the entered, the stench of alcohol engulfed them, mixed unpleasantly with the wreak of stale sweat. James wrinkled his nose in disgust, managing to take his mind off the overwhelming odor; oddly enough, neither Jay nor Valentin seem affected by the stench whatsoever.

Valentin headed for the bathroom with his duffle bag, locking the door behind him. The shower began to run with a loud, pressured whine. Jay pulled two blunts from his backpack and began smoking one, making a phone call to their Ukraine loyalist in Moriarty’s web. Needing to get away from the overpowering room smell now mixing with the smoke of Jay’s marijuana, James stepped outside and began to walk. He didn’t stray too far from the motel, just close enough that he could sprint back if needed. Taking out his phone, he dialed Kate Eloise and listened anxiously to the dull ring.

“Hello?”

James breathed a sigh of relief. She was alright. “Hey Kate, it’s me. How you doing?”

“James?” She said in mock surprise. “You actually called?”

“Ha ha, very funny,” James looked away, hurt. “But seriously, you alright?”

“Yeah, of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No reason,” James said hastily. “Just be safe, okay? I’ll be back soon, and then I can finally take you on a proper date.”

“Back? Won’t you have to return to Ireland?”

James hesitated, trying to think up the right words. “If I do return back, that whole Ireland stuff won’t matter anymore.”

“ _If_?” She said, worried. “James, you _just_ said you’d be back soon! That’s not an ‘ _if’_ ; you have to come back. I _need_ you to come back.”

“For you, Kate Eloise, I’ll do anything.” James was terrified, staring at the very real possibility that he would _not_ be walking away from this whole mess alive.

“Then come back to me. As soon as you can.”

“Consider it done,” He was speaking with a confidence James most certainly didn’t feel. He didn’t have the guts to tell the love of his life he might die soon; how was he going to muster up the courage to kill his own dad?

“That’s my mum, I’ve got to go,” Kate said hastily, a laugh in her voice. “Hey, see you soon, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” James laughed as well, a hollowness to it that wasn’t conveyed over the line. “Soon as I can.”

“Love you, James Moriarty Junior.”

“Love you too, Kate Eloise Watson.”

James could just picture the giddy grin on her face as she click the line shut, the blush in her cheeks, the light dancing in her eyes. For a while, James just sat there, picturing Kate, slowly losing his ability to see her so clearly now that her voice wasn’t helping to spur on the image. It was dark. It was cold. But James couldn’t bring himself to budge. _What if I never see her again?_

“James!” Jay called out, sounding annoyed. “James, I know you can hear me!”

James looked back, finding Jay had walked out to him, arms crossed, blunt clenched in his teeth.

“You’re not chickening out on us, are you?” He growled.

James glared at him. “Of course not!!”

“Good,” Jay calmed a bit, tossing what was rest of his blunt onto the ground and crushing it beneath his sneaker. “We’re moving on in ten. Come inside so we can plan.”

Without another word, James followed his brother back to their motel room, pushing Kate aside in his mind and directing his focus to their mission.

____________________________

Night had settled in comfortably when the boys pulled over at their first destination for the night. All three brothers dressed sharply from head to toe, they exited Jay’s car and made their way into the weaponry store.

“ _Dobryy vechir, panove_ ,” Jay greeted in Ukrainian. “We’ll be taking some of your finest with us.”

“And just who do you think you are?” One of the Ukrainian men growled from behind his counter.

Jay smirked, a highly practiced expression. “Why, James Moriarty Junior, of course.”

“Huh, sure,” the other man scoffed under his breath. “And what makes you think we bel-”

The bullet Jay shot from his rapidly-drawn pistol left the man unable to finish. He dropped to the ground dead.

“Now, about those guns…”

“Take them! Take everything! P-Please, sirs, just don’t hurt me…!”

Jay smiled darkly. “Smart guy.”

The three brothers grabbed what they needed, stocked up on ammo, took a few things for the hell of it, and left just as quickly as they had come, burning rubber as they made their way for the Romanian boarder.

____________________________

It had been a long a weary day for Jim Moriarty, who now sat in his expansive office belonging to his safe house in Serbia. In general, things were not going well. Resources were not coming through, loyalties were shaking, and updates feeding in were not what Moriarty would have wanted. Nevertheless, he stood beside his desk with papers in hand, immaculate from head to toe with his hair slicked and flawless and his Westwood suit without a single wrinkle—unlike his face. There was no denying: Jim Moriarty was getting old. For a long while, only his mirror would inform him of this unpleasant fact, but recently, he felt tired, depressed even, forgetting more than he would have wanted. And it was his age that made Moriarty’s worry so acute at the moment; five years ago, a lack of reports back from his sons would have been nothing to worry over, but today he was worrying alright. He knew his sons better than they knew themselves—had he not shaped them into the people they were today?—and he knew that they were up to no good. Jay had not attended the meeting he had so painstakingly secured with the prime minister of Kosovo. He had expected no word from Valentin, but found himself unsettled by the lack of reports from his people in Russia responsible for the boy’s disappearance. And worst of all, James, so meticulous and careful like his old man, hadn’t reported in for nearly three days.

“You asked for me, sir?” Moran said matter-of-factly as he entered the office, dressed in his military guard gear with rifle slung over his back.

“Yes,” Jim began, setting aside the report on the Chinese sect drug movement. “I have a feeling we’re to be visited by our boys very soon. And intuition tells me this won’t be a very happy reunion. Do us a favor, Moran: if it looks like any of the boys is about to do something regrettable, don’t hesitate to take them all out.”

“Shall I use tranquilizers then?” Moran posed, not quite understanding Moriarty’s intentions.

“No Sebastian,” Moriarty growled darkly. “Real bullets will do the job beautifully.”

 Moran nodded without another word, leaving his boss’ office to take up a sniping position.

The night continued on, growing immeasurably darker as the early hours of the morning came to pass. At four in the morning, Moriarty still sat at his desk, going over reports and making calls around the world. His head looked up at the first sounds of gunfire, the back and forth bantering of bullets firing from automatics. It was not strategic gunfire, conservative and calculating, but rather angry ongoing firing of bullets, emptying clip after clip in an incredible rage. Jim couldn’t help but smirk as he went back to his reports; Jay was definitely here.

For a minute or two, there was palpable silence, before the sound of gunshots continued, one way this time, and much closer. A single gun was firing through a clip before it was cut short, the bearer dead. Then again, a single gun, closer still, and then silence. Moriarty kept an alert ear to the sounds as he sent ahead instructions to his web based on his reports and his agenda. He didn’t take his mind off his work until the door to his office was thrown open and he heard the click of a pistol cocking just inches from his face. Jim Moriarty looked up, his dead eyes meeting with the cold grey eyes of his favorite son. A part of him expected as much, but some small part of him felt utterly betrayed.

“So you finally mustered up the gull to do this,” Moriarty said evenly as he shuffled his reports and set them aside neatly, standing from his chair and walking around to the front of his desk, taking in the sight. James and Jay stood before him, clothes soaked and splattered with blood, even their faces were splashed with the crimson substance, giving the two boys a feral appearance. They both had machine guns slung over their back, though Jay’s was out of ammo—he instead wielded a bowie knife—and James much preferred his pistol now that he was in close quarters with his target. Moriarty examined the weapon held steadily in his face.

“I’m glad you’ve kept it in good condition all these years,” he smiled thinly. “I’d recognize that 1911 handgun any day. What has it been—twelve years?—since I bought that for you?”

“Goddammit James!!” Jay growled, looking ready to cut the forked tongue right out of Moriarty’s mouth. “Just shoot him and be done! Valentin can’t keep the guards at bay for _that_ long!”

“Relax, Jay,” James’ voice came out perfectly cold. “He’s not walking away from here.”

James knew there was no other way. He _had_ to take his father down, had to erase him from their lives in order to have any hope for a brighter future. His hands were as steady as ever, his finger resting on the trigger and ready to pull, but his heart worried. He couldn’t help but look at Moriarty and know that somewhere, behind all the grooming and smirking and malicious intent, his father was in there.

“You’re right to take him out,” Anderson was musing from the corner of the room. “I mean, just look at what he’s done to you!”

“You were supposed to be something great,” John Watson sighed. “You were a bright kid. Happy too. Until Moriarty made you a-”

“ _Murderer_!” Donavan screamed.

James jumped, startled, his hallucinations disappearing in a flash, leaving only the smirking Moriarty at the end of his gun. James felt a rush of anger blurring his intuition. What sort of father turns their kid psycho!?

“You know, if you kill me James, they’ll all know,” Moriarty said calmly. “Mr. and Mrs. Watson, Lestrade and his bumbling police, Molly Hooper, Kate Eloise…. they’ll all know who you _really_ are.”

James couldn’t help but feel a stab of icy fear run through him.

“What? You think they’ll just open their arms up to greet James the Murderer?” Moriarty laughed. “It’s more likely they’ll open up a nice solitary cell to you instead.”

Jay was yelling something at Moriarty, blue eyes intense with rage, but James couldn’t hear it. Everything seemed to slow down, everything seemed to have gone silent. In his head, everyone was yelling. If anyone was trying to be helpful in his chaotic mind of his, they were being drowned out by screams and accusations and angry voices. The room was full of people arguing. James could feel his consciousness slipping, overwhelmed by the psychosis. _Oh God_ , he thought. _I can’t do it! I’ll never be able to do it!_

And then in the midst of the oncoming blackness, he felt someone take his hand. He turned, looking beside him to see Kate Eloise. She had taken his hand, and was staring ashen-faced at Moriarty. Slowly she turned, her eyes full of fear and sadness, and James heard his own voice echo in his head.

_I’m yours, Ms. Kate Eloise Watson, so long as you will have me._

Her ashen face brightened into a loving smile, and he felt her give his hand a little squeeze, her voice coming through over the others as clear as a bell.

_Always._

And that was the instant James Moriarty Junior fired his gun. And the next instant was the instant Jim Moriarty collapsed to the ground in a pool of blood, his dead eyes as dull as ever. James couldn’t take his eyes of the sight. The shot had gone through his head, off the side, nearly missing. His hair, once so perfect, was now soaked with blood, giving it a animalistic texture. The blood was staining the carpet, his suit; it had splattered the desk, speckled his reports. As James eyes trailed emotionlessly over the horrific sight, he became aware of Jay behind Moriarty’s desk, making calls, sending messages, disbanding a network that had been decades in the making in a matter of minutes. With the guards called off, Valentin came running in, taking in the sight with one glance and running to James.

“James!” He was yelling, trying to shake his brother out of his state of shock. “James it’s over! James, come on!”

James couldn’t move if he had wanted to. _He’s dead_. He couldn’t believe it was done, even with his own eyes affirming that fact over and over again. He felt a rough hand shake his shoulder

“Well done James,” Jay smiled grimly, leading his brother away from the scene by each of his shoulders. “Come on. Let’s get away from here before something goes wrong.”

As James allowed himself to be steered towards the door, his eyes wandered out the window.

“The sun’s coming up,” he said quietly.

“That it is,” Jay assured, gently prying the gun from James’ hand and returning it to its holster. “And what a beautiful sunrise at that.”


	45. Chapter 45

The three brothers had been driving for close to eight hours, but James couldn’t forget the sight of Moriarty lying dead on the ground. _He_ had caused that image to become a reality. Jay kept glancing at him whenever he could spare his eyes, clearly worried about his brother who remained eerily quiet. In fact, they were all not quite themselves. Jay thought he’d be overjoyed the moment Moriarty’s heart quit beating, but he honestly didn’t feel any better. He didn’t feel any worse, granted, but he desperately wanted to feel happy again. Valentin, too, was stoically indifferent, if not even a little upset. He might not have been the one to kill Moriarty, but he felt morally responsible. And his father’s death didn’t undo the damage he had caused Valentin in Russia. There wasn’t a single sound to break their silence apart from the constant hum of the engine and the scrape of the wheels on the road.

They arrived in Salzburg, Austria around one o’clock, checking into a poorly kept motel nearby to the airport. They went to their rented room, got changed, clean the blood off of themselves, burned their blood-soaked clothes in the oven, and cleaned their weapons of all traces of fingerprints. By three o’clock, Jay was ordering them all take-out, Valentin was reading a book he had found left in the bathroom, and James was out cold, curled in a ball on the bed.

James was dreaming of Kate Eloise. He saw her, standing outside her house, waiting for him to return. He ran for her, overjoyed, running as fast as he could. But he neglected to realize that around her house sat several police cars, their lights flashing. He slowed down, stopped, but it was too late. Police swarmed him, wrestled him into handcuffs, called him ”psycho” and “serial killer” and “murderer” and “monster,” all while Kate Eloise stood by and watched, her face expressionless aside from a look of disgust that came over her when their eyes met. James felt his heart physically shatter, unable to breathe. Next thing he knew he was in jail. Alone. Cold. Tearing at the door with his bare hands, screaming, crying, bleeding, going absolutely insane.

James bolted awake, gasping for air and shaking all over. Jay had given him a shake, the reason for his waking.

“Hey, we’ve got take out,” he said, trying not to seem worried. “You hungry?”

The three brothers crowded around one very small table, having to drag it over beside the bed in order to have enough places to sit. Jay had ordered Chinese food, and they all dug in like they hadn’t eaten in days. James, who hadn’t felt much of anything since killing his father, managed to find quite the appetite, wolfing down his lo mein and finishing what little was left of Jay’s and Valentin’s food. They were all sitting together, happily full; James reached out and took a fortune cookie from the table, unwrapping it and breaking it in half. He popped the cheap styrofoam-textured cookie halves into his mouth as he read his fortune: _If you never give up on love, It will never give up on you_. He looked up as Valentin broke the silence.

“So, _moi brattya_ ,” he began, looking to either of his brothers. “What do you plan to do now that we’re no longer burdened by you-know-who?”

“To be honest,” Jay began hesitantly, running a hand into the front of his hair nervously. “I’m seriously thinking about settling down. You know, work a 9 to 5 job, own a nice little house, and marry my girl Roza.” A blush shone through his cheeks. “She’s something else, that Roza. We met in Kosovo, and ever since then, I’ve been madly in love with her. You never know, maybe we’ll even have a kid or two.” He laughed breathily. “I think I could manage to be a better father to my kids than mine was to me.”

Desperate to get the spotlight off of himself, Jay threw the question back at Valentin. “So blondie, what are your plans? Headed back to the domestic life with the Watson’s?”

Valentin turned rather ashen, looking down at the table for a while before answering, voice barely more than a mumble. “I’m not going back, actually. I can’t. I don’t deserve to return to the after what I’ve done…” His voice trailed off, then came back more confident. “I think I may travel around for a while. You know, see the world, that sort of thing. I don’t know, maybe I’ll start off in Barcelona, see a friend of mine. Then just make it up as I go.”

“Sounds like a fun time, Tin,” Jay smiled, ruffling his brothers hair fondly. Ever since he had let his grudge for the Russian go, the two of them had become thick as thieves. “What about you James? What are the plans for our hero of the century?”

James fiddled with his fortune. “I want to be with Kate Eloise Watson, stay by her side as long as she’ll have me there. But before I can, there’s someplace I have to visit first."

____________________________

James sat in the rental car, killing the engine with the turn of the key. He wondered all of a sudden if this was such a good idea. It seemed like the right thing to do on the way, but now, parked outside the tiny little cottage, he began to have serious doubts.

With a resolute breath, James kicked open the car door and ducked his way outside, walking up the stone-paved path up to the front porch, hand reaching into his pocket for the key. James’ feet stopped moving before he could step up onto the porch, eyes glued to the rocking chair.

_“James, what’s the matter?”_

_“Nothin’…”_

_“You’ve been sitting in that chair for hours! Why don’t you come eat something?”_

_“I can’t eat. I’m too busy thinking.”_

Shaking himself back to reality, he walked up the steps, the old weather-worn wood creaking audibly in protest to the long-forgotten pressure of feet. Taking the key from his pocket, James fidgeted with it in his hand, afraid of what he might find inside. Mycroft had been paying to keep the house from being touched, so whatever awaited beyond the door hadn’t been disturbed since she had lived here. James didn’t know if that thought comforted him or made him feel sick.

He opened the door and stepped cautiously inside.

The first thing he noticed was the smell. It was hidden behind layers of decaying wood and stale air, but it was still lingering: that familiar aroma of home. It embraced him and assured him that coming was the right thing to have done. James walked cautiously, carefully, admiring the books littered everywhere, gathering dust; they were all his. Science books, history books, math books, philosophy books, mystery books, books in different languages: he had spent three years with them as his only company. He wandered into the kitchen, finding dishes still sitting in the sink, unwashed, any residue of food long since scavenged away. James gravitated towards the old refrigerator, where old yellowing photographs were held in place by cheap magnetics. There was one of a much younger James with shaggy hair and a sun-kissed face lying in the grass, holding a young Socrates in his lap, the boy sporting the biggest smile he could muster. Another photo showed an even younger James curled up in the rocking chair on the porch with a text book that just about dwarfed him. A third photo was one of Missy hugging James and kissing his cheek, all off to one side because she had tried to take the picture herself and got the angle wrong. There was a huge lens flare over both their faces, but they were just distinct enough that James recognized himself and his mother. He took the picture off the fridge and pocketed it.

Heading up the narrow flight of stairs, James headed for his mother’s old office, glancing into his old room as he passed. The bed was made, the bookshelf was neat and tidy, the waste basket was overflowing with hateful confessions. James kept walking. He reached his mother’s office, finding it unnaturally messy. It looked as if hurricane winds had blown through, but James knew this was different. This was a sign of struggle. He felt a lump come into his throat as he thought of his mother fighting against the people sent to take her away and execute her. His eyes fell onto her desk, which was strangely neat compared to everything else in the room. He found an envelope placed very purposefully beneath a paperweight, a smooth river stone with the word _Wisdom_ etched onto it. Removing the weight, James examined the envelope, finding his name written on it in his mother’s familiar chicken-scratch penmanship. Sitting down in the swivel chair at the desk, he opened the letter and began to read it:

            _My Dearest James,_

_I can only imagine that by the time you find this letter I will be long gone. Maybe you have children of your own now, or maybe you’re just troubled and need of solace. Whatever the reason, I hope this letter will give you peace of mind._

_When your father presented his idea of a perfect son to me, I had no clue what was to come. I had no idea that he would come to mistreat you and harm you until you became what he wanted. If I had known, I would have refused him outright. But I did not know. And I want to personally apologize for any and all harm that has ever been bestowed upon you, because it is my fault for bringing you into the world. Nevertheless, I am so so proud of you. You are more than I could ever hope for in a son. Your father may want to bring out the worst in you James, and focus on those traits solely, but I’m here to assure you that those traits are minimal. You are kind, you and smart, you are gentle, and most of all you strive to make people happy. Never forget that James, for I have no doubt in my mind that one day someone will love you dearly for those traits just as much as I did._

_Your father acts as if you are his clone, an exact replica of himself. Don’t believe that for one second, James. You are my son just as much as you are his. Every time I look into your beautiful, expressive grey eyes, I am reminded of this fact, as should you be. I am confident that you are fully aware of how genetics works, and so you should know that you are your own person. Don’t let anyone ever tell you who you should be, because ultimately that will always be up to you. It never matters if you end up a great person, or even a good person; as long as you end up being yourself, you should be proud. No one else can say they were you._

_I don’t have much more time, James, and there’s so much I want to tell you. I want you to know most of all that I loved you, I still love you, and I will always love you, no matter what. You deserve to be happy. You deserve to grumble about your boring old day job. You deserve to come home to smiling faces that love you for who you are. Never settle for less than you deserve, James. I’m rooting for you to come out on top. I know you will. Give Sherlock my love._

_Your Biggest Fan,_

_Mum_

Carefully, James folded the letter back up and returned it to its envelope, slipping it into the pocket inside his jacket. He took a moment to gather himself, realizing that though his heart felt heavy, he felt better. Guilt wasn’t weighing down on him quite so heavily, and fear didn’t seem to haunt his steps. Kate Eloise awaited him back in London, and now he no longer believed the police would be waiting too. Why should they? Moriarty practically didn’t exist in the eyes of the law. He was too slippery, too elusive, too careful. The fact that James killed him wasn’t going to trigger any sort of arrest.

James lingered around the cottage a little while longer, recalling fondly the times he spent with his mother, and pushing aside the gloom that was ever present during his childhood. She had been so cheery, so loving, so inspiring. She had been everything James had needed, when he needed it. Even now, in her death, she was there for him, reaching out through her letter. James pulled out the photograph of his mother and him, rubbing his thumb across the blurred and cut-off shape that was his mother’s smiling face. Did she ever meet Kate Eloise? James didn’t think so. She was always working when she lived in London. He was always with Sherlock. Slowly, as James searched the indistinguishable face of his mother in the photograph, he realized just how little time he had spent with her. Three years was all they really had. James’ jaw clenched as he felt tears coming to his eyes.

As James turned the key and locked the door behind him, he felt a sense of closure. That this house held no more for him. That his future lay somewhere beyond the rolling hills of Liechtenstein. James got in the rental car and revved the engine, smiling a little. He knew exactly where his future lied. It lay in small townhouse, with a beautiful smiling girl, and it lay in the promise of _always_.

____________________________

Jay pulled up to his mother’s apartment in Paris, the dark of night having long since set in. Dragging his feet from exhaustion, he got out of the car and made his way up the stairs in the building, getting to the third and top story and heading down the hall. He slung off his backpack, digging for his keys, when the door flew open. Jay had hardly looked up when he was taken to the ground in a hug, ears filled with the sweet music of his Roza’s laugh. Her smile was infectious, and even in Jay’s terrible exhaustion, he smiled right back, holding her as he got to his feet. Her legs wrapped around his waist as she kissed him with shameless sensuality, Jay carrying her into the apartment, pulling his backpack inside skillfully with a single foot, shutting the door with the other. Jay made his way over to the couch, setting his beautiful girl down, kissing her back until she pulled away, both her soft, slender hands cupping his face, eyeing him with scrutiny.

 “You look terrible,” she pouted.

Jay kept on smiling, brushing a shimmery black curl out of the way of her stunning mysterious green eyes. “Well you look beautiful. Like always.”

She laughed, shoving Jay in the shoulders before taking his shirt in two tight, silver-nailed fists.

“Make us any money, handsome?” She asked with a glint in her eyes.

Jay leaned forward, his hands on either side of her head on the couch, their faces inches apart.

“Oh you know,” he answered quietly, voice smooth. “I only got us an entire network of money-makers.”

She laughed again, cutting herself off as she kissed Jay passionately, slipping off his shirt without so much as disturbing their kiss.

Jay was completely lost in the scent of her exotic perfume and the rush of blood filling his head and making him dizzy. And oh how he loved his Roza! To him, they would be together forever, like a modern day Bonnie and Clyde. And he thought for sure his Roza felt the same way with her passionate kisses and shameless sexiness. But as the old saying goes, love is blind, in all aspect of the word.

____________________________

Valentin breathed in the salty air of Barcelona, unable to help but smile. Under the bright warm sun and amidst the exciting hustle and bustle of the crowded white-washed city, Valentin hardly felt like he was running away from his problems. This felt like a vacation, and maybe it would be, if his past didn’t rear its ugly head again. With a drawstring bag slung over his shoulders and flip flops on his feet, Valentin made his way to the marina to find the boat Juan Pablo had arranged for him to take. More than anxious, Valentin was excited. Africa! He could hardly wait.

The marina was full of briny smells, some not so pleasant, and leathery-skinned sailors hauling cargo on and off their ships, aided by huge powerful cranes. Valentin weaved through the men, ducked under their boxes, greeted everyone cheerily and got many hats tipped his way in friendly gestures.

“You the boy Juan Pablo sent?” a gruff voice growled in Spanish beside Valentin.

Valentin whirled around, smiling at the tough looking man with a bulldog face.

“Yes sir,” Valentin replied automatically in Spanish. “You must be Captain Joaquin.”

Joaquin sized up the short blonde boy, noting his strong arms and his easy posture notable in acrobats.

“You bad with heights, boy?”

“No sir!” Valentin grinned. “The higher the better!”

“Can you climb ropes with those woman hands of yours?”

“Every day if you’d ask it of me!”

“You willing to put your talk to work?”

“Yes sir, Captain Joaquin, sir!”

The serious man showed a rare half-smile. “Then welcome aboard, _muchacho_!”

Within the hour, Valentin had left Barcelona. An hour more, and the beautiful shores of Spain disappeared beyond the horizon of beautiful blue-grey sea. Valentin felt the spray of the water on his face, heard the bark of the second mate, the rock of the sea beneath his feet. He didn’t have a single minute to think about the Watson’s worrying about him back in London. He was too caught up in anticipating the African coast looming into his view.

____________________________

Kate Eloise was busy brushing out her wavy golden hair before bed, dressed up in her flannel pajamas bottoms with flowers all over them and an old concert t-shirt given to her by her Aunt Harry. It was getting late, and Kate was just about to crawl in bed with a book when she heard the faint rumble of a car driving by. She paused, listening, but the car kept driving. Trying not to feel too disappointed, since it _was_ the umpteenth car to pass by that day, she decided to stall her resignation to bed by putting on her robe and heading downstairs for a quick snack. As she rummaged through the fridge, she heard another car go by, but this one lingered outside her house and the engine stalled before cutting out. A huge grin spread over her face as she ran for the front door, fridge left open and food forgotten.

She burst out the front door, her eyes falling on the rusty old car parked in front of her house. Her heart sank; this wasn’t James’ car, the 67 Impala Convertible. She had turned quickly to head back inside and avoid embarrassment when a voice made her freeze.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Kate turned again, finding the driver of the car walking around the car and towards the house. She wasted no time in running into his arms.

“Hiya, sweetheart. Miss me at all?” James was laughing, relieved to find Kate still loved him.

Kate held his face in both her hands and pulled him into a kiss while he held her suspended in the air. She felt her feet touch the ground and she held the kiss a moment longer before pulling away and going from tiptoes to flat on her feet.

“Took your damn time, didn’t you?” She shook her head, noticing the disheveled appearance of his clothes and the stale odor of poorly aged leather clinging to him.

“These rental cars,” James grinned sheepishly. “Constantly breaking down…”

“So…” Kate smiled, looking up into his bright grey eyes. “You staying a little while?”

“How does ‘for good’ sound?” He smiled, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her close.

Kate broke into a radiant smile. “Sounds alright to me.”

They kissed again, engulfed in each other’s love, and they would have kissed right on through to morning if James hadn’t spotted one of the Watson’s appear in their bedroom window, no doubt watching. Pulling away, he rested his forehead on Kate, breathing in the sweet smell of her shampoo, her arms still wrapped around his neck and his still around her waist.

“Mind if I crash here tonight? I think I’ve done enough leaving your side for a lifetime.”

Kate giggled, blushing a bit. “Yeah, I can have the sleeper sofa ready in a jiff.”

James groaned. “Oh I just _love_ the sleeper sofa…”

Kate folded her arms behind his neck, drawing James in closer.

“And maybe, just maybe,” she whispered, biting her lip in a grin. “I’ll join you once my parents fall asleep.”

“Two blokes on a sleeper sofa,” James smiled ruefully. “Doesn’t get more romantic than that.”

“I know it’s not a rooftop dinner with a ton of candles,” Kate pouted. “But it’s the best I’ve got at the moment, thank you very much.”

James gave her one last kiss. “I don’t need anything fancy. As long as I’m with my Kate Eloise, I’m the happiest man on Earth.”


	46. Part IX

The night was cool and crisp, helping James to stay awake as he sat on the balcony of his flat. Not that he needed any help; his racing mind and the nicotine patches dotting his arm were plenty. He held a glass of liquor in his hands but hadn’t taken a sip since pouring it over an hour ago. He leaned forward in his chair, eyes fixed on the street below as the occasional cab buzzed by in search of drunkards leaving the bars and the clubs. Dawn wasn’t too far away, and soon the nightlife would be shutting their doors and booting those left inside; the cab activity would pick up then.

“It’s hard isn’t it?” Sherlock sighed, sitting in the chair beside James. “Living an average life.”

“Yeah,” James sighed in resignation. “But it’ll all be worth it.”

“Sure yeah,” Sherlock flashed a brief smile. “How’s Kate?”

“She’s doing wonderful,” James smiled a bit thinking about his girlfriend. “She’s having a blast at college. Goes on for hours about her classes and professors and colleagues when she gets home.”

“That’s good,” Sherlock leaned back in his chair. “And how about you? How’s the new job suiting you?”

“Oh you know…” James shrugged, finally taking a gulp of the liquor as anxiety began to wash over him. “It’s a job. It pays the rent.”

It was his eleventh job in the past three years. James just couldn’t hold one down. As soon as he started to get used to the people and the work, he couldn’t stand it anymore. It became suffocatingly dull, and as much as he tried to ignore the voices and the hallucinations, something always happened; something always had to go wrong.  And if he wasn’t fired by then, James quit. He spent maybe a day or two at home, occupying himself with books and puzzles and exercises. And then everything he saw became another reminder that he need a job. The lights in the kitchen cost money, the refrigeration of Kate’s yoghurt cost money, the water used to brush his teeth cost money, Kate’s clothes cost money, her school cost money….

James pressed a fist into his forehead, the stress of fitting in weighing down on him as he thought about his unfortunate cycle of employment. Dark circles under his eyes suggested that stressing at the early hours of the day had become a habit, out of necessity of course. The cold air felt like knives on his bare chest, but it reminded him that he was somewhere real. Somewhere with real problems that he tried to forget beneath the haze of alcohol. He finished the glass of liquor and sat there wishing he had more.

“Is it really that bad, babe?”

James looked up to see Kate poking her head out the glass door leading inside to their flat. She was hugging her robe around herself, coming out to sit beside him. James barely noticed that Sherlock had up and disappeared; in fact, he had never really been there in the first place.

“I’m alright,” James assured quietly.

“It’s always alcohol when you’re stressed and nicotine when you’re bored. But both? That worries me, James.”

“I know, I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be sorry, Jamie,” Kate frowned, taking a hold of his hand, eyes brimming with affection. “I’m allowed to be worried about you.” She smiled. “Someone’s got to do it.”

He gave her a half-hearted smile back, forgetting his troubles momentarily as he lost himself in how the breathtaking details of her face looked in the dim lighting. Kate clearly caught his trailing eyes and a blush came to her cheeks.

“Come on,” She said determinedly as she stood and swiped the empty glass of liquor from James’ hand, not letting go of the other. “I’ll turn the TV on for you and we can cuddle. Your favorite sciencey show should be on. Sound good?”

“Of course,” James smiled more brightly, letting himself be led back inside.

James walked back into their flat to emerge into their tiny living room, continuing on into their kitchen and through the doorway into he and Kate’s bedroom as she veered off into the kitchen to put his glass in the sink. He crawled onto his side of the bed and snagged the remote from off the nightstand, sitting cross-legged with his back to the headboard, flipping to his favorite channel and listening as the narrator began discussing dark matter and string theory. James checked the time to see how much longer the episode would last, realizing just how ridiculous an hour it was. Kate caught his frown as she entered the bedroom and tossed her robe to one side of the room.

“What?” She asked distractedly as she joined James on the bed and lay with her head in his lap, a yawn escaping her.

“Why were you up so early?”

“Well why were you?”

“I’m _always_ up at this time of night.”

“Exactly.”

“Huh?”

Kate couldn’t help but smile through her drowsiness. “I knew you’d be up. So I set my alarm.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I love you.”

James looked down at her, feeling himself falling for her all over again. It felt like a weight was taken off his shoulders. That’s why he did it, why he worked himself to the bone. That’s why he did anything. To see her smile, to hear her laugh, to feel the sting of her teases, to watch her drift off to sleep with her fair hair falling like a veil over her face; for that, he’d work for a hundred lifetimes, sacrifice himself a million times over, suffer through the guilt until the sun burnt out. Anything for his Kate Eloise.

____________________________

Morning came far too soon and shone onto the face of peacefully slumbering James. With an indignant groan and a powerful stretch, he blinked awake and rubbed the blurriness from his eyes, instinctively searching for Kate to assure himself she was alright. He heard the fridge open, and the faint sound of humming outside the bedroom door. James relaxed, having not even realized he was tense; she was alright.

“Morning Kate,” his voice sounded thick and raspy after the long night.

“Morning sunshine!” He heard Kate call back as cheery and fresh as ever.

Rolling out of bed, James stretched again, looking at himself in the mirror above Kate’s dresser. He could spend hours pinpointing scars on himself and recalling how they got there; if fact, he had on more than one occasion. But today was Saturday, and Saturdays were special. Saturdays meant Kate Eloise was home all day long.

“What’s for breakfast?” James yawned as he exited the bedroom into the kitchen, wrapping his arms around Kate from behind as she fussed about something on the counter. “I’m starved.”

Kate squirmed ticklishly as he nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck, rolling her eyes at his antics.

“Don’t eat too much Jamie,” she warned. “We’re having brunch with my parents and Sherlock. And whoever else shows up.”

“Yes ma’am,” James mumbled, gracing her shoulder with a kiss before pulling away, ducking down the stairs to fetch the mail before Kate had an opportunity to smack him upside the head.

James exited their flat just as the postman arrived. The elderly man smiled warmly at James and tipped his cap. James smiled back. He was always thrilled to see the postman who used to deliver to Baker Street back when James lived with Sherlock.

“How are you today?” James asked pleasantly.

“Never better,” the post man wheezed. “How’s your girl?”

“I’m keeping her happy.”

“Clever boy,” the man winked, handing James a collection of envelopes, going on his way.

James ducked back into the flat, climbing the stairs as he skimmed through the mail. Bills, bills, credit card companies; he paused at one that captured his attention with bright colors and a picture captioned _The Sydney Opera House_. It was a postcard from Valentin, an infrequent surprise that James treasured each time he received one. Taped to the back of the postcard was a polaroid picture of Valentin and another guy his age with sandy brown hair and earnest hazel eyes, both grinning like happy idiots on a breathtaking beach. James recognized the guy; he had been pictured with Valentin in the past few postcards. James assumed they started travelling together at some point. He went back into the kitchen and stuck the new postcard on the fridge amongst the others, taking a step back to admire all the places his younger brother had been in the past three years.

James snuck a cookie from Kate’s secret stash, munching on it as he headed into the living room to continue sorting the mail. Kate was there too, phone pinned to her ear with her shoulder as she chatted and browsed social media all at once.  Smiling to himself, James lounged on the couch, thumbing through the envelopes and tossing the bills and unimportant advertisements onto the coffee table. Then a letter caught his eye. The first thing was the way it was addressed: in handwriting, authentic, personal, a little crude. Second was the address: Paris, France. He sat up straight, forgetting all the other letters as he took this special letter in both hands, ripping the envelope open with his thumb. Pulling out the letter inside, James immediately held it to his nose, breathing in the unpleasant scent of marijuana smoke nostalgically, scanning over the words.

_James,_

_It’s been a while! How’ve you been? ~~I’ve been great, thanks for asking.~~_

_Sorry, that’s just cheesy. Ignore that. I’m not writing to be sappy. I’ve got stuff you need to know. If you’re just dying to know how I’m doing with domestic life, you’ll just have to wait. I’ll be visiting soon; ask me then._

_Anyways, something’s come up. It’s about Moriarty. Seems like our old buddy Moran has been handling the whole affair of his death. And guess which part he finally got to? Yep. The will. The old man must have written it a while ago, because he had quite the clear head from what I can tell. That, and he must have been filthy rich._

_A large sum of his savings are being split between the three of us: you, me, and Tin. Like, set-for-life large. It’s some real nice stuff. The rest is being split into different 401Ks or something of the sort, set aside to grow for our children. The guy was really planning ahead!_

_Just thought I’d give you the details. Didn’t want you having a panic attack over a couple million rolling into your bank account in the near future. Speaking of near future, I’ll be visiting London quite soon. Like, really soon, in fact. Me and my pal Luke are going to pay a visit for a week or two. We’ll probably stay with Sherlock, but keep your couch available just in case that arrangement doesn’t work out._

_Yeah, I’m done writing this. I feel really stupid._

_See you soon,_

_Jay_

He read it over and over three times more, a growing sense of bafflement and excitement becoming more prevalent with each re-read. Looking up to find Kate off the phone, he shone a grin her way.

“Hey Kate, you’ll never guess!” But one look at her shocked expression and James was immediately concerned. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“That was our bank,” she said shakily, sounding fairly calm. “Apparently we’re uh… we’re millionaires…?”

“Here,” James comforted as he got up and walked over to her, handing over the letter from Jay. “This should shed a little light on the situation.”

Kate read the letter, frowned curiously, and then read it again with more scrutiny, looking to James.

“So… the money is from your dad?”

“I suppose so, yeah,” James mumbled, not liking to talk about Moriarty. It always made his stomach seize into knots.

Kate knew just how James felt, immediately standing and hugging him comfortingly, head resting on his chest. She could recall the day he confessed to killing Moriarty as clear as if it had happened yesterday. She had come back from being out with friends, finding James awake as always at the early hours of the morning. He was a little drunk, just enough to blurt out the confession as soon as she prompted him with _What’s wrong?_ Kate had heard her father talk about how Sherlock had to kill a terrible, evil man before he and Mary could live happily together. She considered the affair between James and Moriarty to be no different. She had witnessed first-hand the fear, the manipulation, the torture James’ father had put he and his brothers through. She truly believed James had done the right thing, and she was endlessly proud of him for it.

“Hey, with all that money, you can finish your degree!” Kate suddenly exclaimed.

“Yeah, I suppose I could…” James had gotten his Master’s in Philosophy soon after returning home three years ago, and had been working on his Master’s in Quantum Physics until expenses starting getting tight and employment became his biggest concern.

“And you can quit that horrid day job of yours,” Kate added with an affectionate squeeze.

James winced a bit. “Yeah. I guess I can do that too...”

“We’ll figure out all the finances, don’t you worry,” Kate assured, easily changing the subject as she noted James’ uneasiness and distant eyes. “The biggest news is your brother is visiting! Three years is a long time to be gone. I wonder how he’s been doing. Do you know who this Luke fellow is?”

“Not a clue,” James said, looking down at Kate, admiring the knot between her eyebrows as she drifted away in thought.

Kate looked up at him, reaching up and giving him a teasing kiss.

“Priorities, babe! You’ve never been good at them! The brunch! You’ve got me so distracted with money and visiting brothers that we’re nearly late!”

James watched as Kate fussed about gathering up some food to take with them, catching James staring once more.

“Go on, doofus! Get your ass dressed!” She teased.

James headed to the bedroom. “You’re wrong about me and priorities, you know.”

“Oh am I?” Kate laughed challengingly.

“Yep,” James smirked, pausing to take Kate around the waist with one arm and dip her into a romantic kiss, pulling her back up. “You’re always my number one priority, Kate Eloise.”

“You’re one hell of a handful, James Timothy Allen!” Kate shook her head, but James could tell by the deep flush of her cheeks that she was really quite flustered and flattered.


	47. Chapter 47

Sitting in his car parked on the ferry to England, Jay couldn’t deny just how nervous he felt. It was an odd feeling to have all on its own; usually if Jay was nervous, it was overshadowed by either and accompanying rage or excitement. But today he wasn’t angry, and he wasn’t excited, he was very plainly anxious, possibly even terrified. When he had thought up the idea, it had seemed so simple, so matter-of-fact. But now, as the time approached to actually partake in the action…

His mind drifted to Roza, and his heart felt a stab. Perhaps the reason he felt so nervous was because he hadn’t the time to prepare. Jay couldn’t recall the actual words that had transpired between he and his wife, but the angry scream that stuck daggers in his heart and added fuel to his fiery rage was etched into his mind. It wasn’t the first time she had kicked him out, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Roza just got mad, and she knew just how to make Jay angry enough to force him to think her justified in kicking him to the curb. It hurt, unimaginably so, to think that Roza wanted him gone. It hurt even more to remember that she hadn’t once ever asked him to come back; he always came sneaking home in the dark of night with flowers and jewelry and an apology on his lips that was muffled by her demanding kisses.

Watching the sluggish movement of the ferry, Jay tried desperately to recall when his relationship had become so corrupt. They had been so happy, always smiling, always laughing, always fooling around. He supposed her mood turned foul when she was pregnant, but he always though it was a hormonal thing, soon to pass with the completion of the whole pregnancy. Jay winced as he recalled his wife, holding their newborn in her arms with a venomous glare.

_“What should we call him?”_

_“Lucifer, because this devil child ruined my life.”_

Jay was brought back to reality as his son gave a quiet, desperate cry from the backseat of the car. Jay climbed out of the driver’s seat and contorted his way into the back seats, taking the tiny boy into his arms. Lucifer William Sherlock. As soon as the tiny infant found himself in his father’s arms, he cooed and fell silent, making soft sounds as he smiled around the fist he was gnawing. Such a bright smile, such expressive blue-green eyes, such soft dark hair. Jay crossed his eyes and puffed out his cheeks, succeeding in causing a squeal of amusement to escape his son, who wiggled delightedly. Jay smiled brighter than he had ever before. His son brought out the best in him when his wife ceased to do so. And it was a magical thing to hold one’s whole world in one’s arms.

“Luke my man, we’re going on an adventure,” he spoke quietly, smiling at how enthralled his son was to hear his father’s voice. “There’s some people that are gonna be so smitten with you.” He tweaked Lucifer’s foot playfully and the infant pulled away with another happy squeak.

Jay simply didn’t understand it, how Roza could despise their child as much as she did. He rarely cried, he didn’t have any problems like colic, and best of all he was as cute as they come. But where Jay saw a little ray of sunshine, his wife saw a ball and chain. Settling down was not in her plans, and Jay was too blind to realize.

____________________________

The day was boring as ever at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock had been rummaging for cases all morning, but nothing was challenging enough for him to take up. Instead, Sherlock sat in his chair, leaning as far back as possible and his legs stretched out in front of him. Mrs. Hudson came by with a plate of biscuits.

“Oh cheer up, Sherlock dear,” she smiled. “I hear Jay is visiting town soon. How exciting! I imagine you’re eager to see him.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Beside Irene and Mycroft and himself, Mrs. Hudson was the only non-family member to know of Jay’s true parentage. And she spent every moment possible trying to put the dysfunctional family back together again.

“Not quite,” Sherlock groaned. “Jay Moriarty and I are not exactly on affectionate terms with one another. He didn’t even invite me to his wedding!”

“For the record Sherlock, he didn’t invite _anyone_ to his wedding. Not even lovely James.”

“James is one thing,” Sherlock grumbled. “He’s just a close friend. I’m the boy’s father for pete’s sake!”

“Now Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson chided. “You know those three boys are as close as they get, whether they’re brothers or not. You shouldn’t take the lack of a wedding invite so personally.”

“My point _is_ , Mrs. Hudson, Jay and I are simply _not_ close. He doesn’t even consider me his dad.”

“Give him time, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson softened her tone. “You can’t expect him to forgive you for being so absent overnight.”

“It’s been twenty-three years,” Sherlock signed in mournful resignation. “I don’t believe he’ll ever forgive me.”

The day continued on, with Sherlock at his computer and Mrs. Hudson in her kitchen on the bottom floor. The day was unbearably uneventful until the bell rung late in the afternoon. Sherlock didn’t budge, knowing that whomever it was, Mrs. Hudson would send them up. The minutes ticked by with no one climbing the stairs to the second floor, a fact Sherlock suddenly became aware of, as distracted as he was browsing John’s blog. _It must be a friend of Mrs. Hudson’s,_ he thought _. Come to visit her_. No sooner did he turn back to his laptop did he hear footsteps on the stairs. Turning his head, he fixed the twenty-three-year-old with a rather dark stare, his eyes raking judgmentally over his features. Hair a little long and curly because of it, quite a bit of dark stubble on his face, eyes still as piercing as ever, thin but bulked up by impressive musculature, clothes a little shabby and mismatched, as if chosen is a hurry. Sherlock could see the piercing blue eyes shifting over his own person, no doubt sizing him up as well.

“Sherlock,” Jay said evenly.

“Jay,” Sherlock matched his tone.

There was a long minute of tense silence, each of them waiting for the other to say something first.

“I uh-…” Jay began uncertainly, his hands tugging at one another nervously. “You see-… um… I wanted-… well I-….”

Jay’s stuttering broke off as Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs, and Jay moved aside to let her up. She entered with a tiny little baby in her arms, something Sherlock was absolutely not expecting.

“Isn’t he just the most precious little thing!” Mrs. Hudson cooed.

“What-…. _Who_ is that..?” Sherlock blinked several times.

“That,” Jay took in an unsteady breath. “Is Lucifer William Sherlock _Holmes_ ,” he ran his fingers up into his hair, a trembling smile coming anxiously to his face. “Had to make sure the doctors got the last name right. Took a lot of paperwork to convince them James Moriarty Junior wasn’t my given name…”

Sherlock stared at Jay in open-mouthed shock, wanting to say something but fearing he may get choked up if he tried.

“He’s uh,” Jay began, voice breaking a little, tickling his son’s foot as he lay in Mrs. Hudson’s arms. “He’s your grandson, Sherlock...”

Sherlock slowly got out of his chair, feet taking him over to Mrs. Hudson to get a better look at this Lucifer character. He just stared, having difficulty processing everything. Mrs. Hudson had a huge grin on her face.

“He’s got your eyes, Sherlock!”

“So he does…” Sherlock’s voice seemed to speak on its own. “Why Lucifer?”

“His mother’s choice,” Jay said, voice terse. “She’s not particular fond of our son.”

“What a dreadful thing!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, drawing the little baby closer to her protectively. “This one’s no devil, he’s an angel!”

Lucifer cooed happily, reaching for Mrs. Hudson’s face with his tiny fists. Jay smiled.

“I just call him Luke. Sometimes Lucky, sometimes Seifer, but mostly Luke.”

“May I…?” Sherlock asked, looking to Jay.

Jay gave him an encouraging nod, and Sherlock took the little infant gingerly from Mrs. Hudson’s arms. He was so small, so fragile, so soft. Sherlock simply hadn’t understood when Kate Eloise was born, couldn’t understand the concern on John’s face when he held her, the delighted glow in John’s eyes when he held his own daughter. But now Sherlock understood, holding his grandson in his arms. His heart went out to the tiny child, wanting him to succeed, to be something spectacular, to never encounter any harm. Sherlock thought about his own childhood, thought about what Jay must have gone through in his childhood, and drew Lucifer closer to him as a result.

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you, Luke,” Sherlock murmured, his deep voice enthralling his grandson. “You have such a happy smile. I want to see it all the time, you hear?”

Lucifer responded with a little squeak that made Sherlock chuckle.

“Good,” he said, sitting down in his chair and gently rocking the infant. “I’m glad were in agreement.”

Lucifer gurgled in response, to which Sherlock nodded sagely, as if he understood.

Jay stood by and watched, unable to help but smile brightly at the sight of his real father with his son, doting upon him with the endless love that flows forth from grandparents. And deep inside, Jay felt majorly relieved. Luke might be coming from something of a broken home, but he would always have Jay there looking out for him, and now he’d also have Sherlock. There wasn’t a better place in the world that Jay would want his son to be than in the watchful eye and tender affection of Sherlock Holmes.


	48. Chapter 48

“He’s so cute!”

“Look at him! He looks just like his daddy!”

“And those eyes! If you told me they were Sherlock’s, I would’ve believed you!”

“How precious!”

James simply didn’t understand. Maybe it was his cumulative lack of sleep, or maybe it was the whole ordeal with Moriarty’s will money, or maybe it was just the unseasonably high temperatures, but James wasn’t dotting over his more-or-less nephew. Instead, he leaned against the wall by the stairwell of 221B Baker Street, watching as the women swooned around baby Lucifer. Molly, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Anderson, even Kate Eloise—they were all drawn to the smiling baby like metal to a magnet. What made James even more cross was the fact that Jay was right in the middle of it, answering every last question about his son with a glowing smile. James glowered at the sight, wondering what in the world had happened to his stand-offish murderer of a brother.

James could hear the sound of the guys having drinks in the kitchen—Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Anderson—but he didn’t feel like joining them. He much preferred his spot by the stairwell for its convenient escape route and poor lighting.

“Oh he’s just so wonderful, isn’t he Jamie?” Kate had come over to him, practically bouncing in place.

“Sure, yeah,” James answered with convincing enthusiasm. “Can’t wait to buy him a chemistry set.”

Kate clung to his arm, staring with a glossy expression at the people still dotting, clearly lost in thought.

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful?” She sighed wistfully.

“What, having a kid?” James couldn’t contain the panic that edged into his voice, nor the horror that accompanied it.

Kate gave him an odd look, as if she wasn’t so sure it was her Jamie she was clinging to.

“Well yeah,” she said, clear his answer had put a damper on her high spirits. “Eventually.”

James composed himself, putting on a huge fake grin that seemed authentic in the poor lighting.

“Eventually, yeah!” He was relieved to see the blinding smile return to her face. “A little bundle of joy all our own. I couldn’t imagine anything better!”

She gave his arm a squeeze before dashing off to see little Lucifer and feed her thoughts of a baby-filled future. James immediately returned to his sulking, wishing he could have a scotch to down without risking getting caught in the men’s conversation in the kitchen. A baby? Was she crazy!? James could hardly think straight with the burdens of finances and his girlfriend’s happiness alone. If he added the weight of responsibility that came with children, he was sure he’d go insane. Well, _further_ insane. That thought made him smile a bit.

“You look like you could use a drink.”

James looked up to find Mycroft had snuck into the flat while everyone was distracted, and had by some miracle secured two glasses of whiskey from the kitchen. James took the second glass gratefully, taking a big gulp and pulling a face. Mycroft sipped his more graciously.

“So there’s a new member of the family,” Mycroft sighed.

“Yeah. Lucifer William Sherlock Holmes, as if I haven’t heard it a million times already…”

Mycroft showed a rare smile. “Do I sense a tad bit of bitterness there, master James?”

“I wouldn’t call it bitterness,” James mumbled.

“Jealousy, perhaps?”

“Please,” James laughed without any mirth. “The last thing I need in my life right now is a baby to provide for.”

“Then jealousy of your brother?” Mycroft offered. “Perhaps for being happier than you? For not struggling quite so much with moving on?”

James fell silent, bringing the glass of scotch to his lips as an excuse to stay silent. As many ways James could blame his foul mood on something else, Mycroft was right. Jay and James had been murderers, had killed dozens if not scores of semi-innocent people. It was something that kept James up at night, haunted his dreams and sometimes even his waking hours; he even felt pangs of guilt just looking at his beautiful, innocent Kate Eloise and thinking just how upset she’d be if she found out what sort of person James really was. But Jay? He wasn’t bothered in the slightest about his past, and if he was, it didn’t show. He had gotten married, had a kid, made amends with Sherlock. From what James had learned, Jay had no issues at his place of work, had even formed himself a group of colleagues to go and get drinks with on the weekends.

Nothing got under James’ skin more than knowing that his callous brother had a lackadaisical, happy life while James was left haunted and stressed. Knowing that Jay had moved on effortlessly while James still felt shackled to his past.

“Ease up, James,” Mycroft warned. “You’re just about to break that glass.”

James came back to himself, realizing just how tense he had become, how tight his fist clenched down on the glass of whiskey. He eased up, noticing a jagged crack in the glass that hadn’t been there before. With the tension gone, James turned shaky. The ice clinked noisily in the glass as he downed the last of the alcohol, handing it over to Mycroft’s outstretched hand.

“Go home, James,” Mycroft said apathetically. “Get some rest. Clear your head. I’ll cover for you here, don’t fret. And then tomorrow, perhaps we can work at helping you move on.”

James wasn’t really thinking anymore, but his feet listened and he was down the stairs and out onto the streets before he knew what was happening. The humid air made his skin crawl and his head swim with sudden nausea. Mycroft was right. He needed to rest. He wouldn’t be missed at the party; hardy anyone noticed him sulking around Sherlock’s flat anyway. He waved as a cab drove close, getting it to pull over. James ducked inside and gave the driver the address of his flat, trying to get his head on straight as he made his way home.

____________________________

It was rather late, and the crowd at Sherlock’s flat had thinned considerably in the last hour or so. Kate had discovered James was missing shortly after her boyfriend had gone home, and she was determined to go home after him to be sure he was alright. John was very persistent on accompanying Kate, and it took a lot of convincing from Kate, Mary, and Sherlock to get him to give up the pursuit. It was no secret that John, while having no problems with James as an individual, was little less than furious about James dating his daughter. John was always scrutinizing the poor guy, using every little slip-up or odd decision as further reason to justify his malcontent with the relationship. And if his grumblings weren’t evidence enough of his feelings towards James, a little alcohol magnified the feelings tenfold. Sherlock couldn’t even imagine what John would do if he ever found out James had dabbled in being a serial killer as a teen, but he was certain James probably would end up dead.

After Kate left, continuously promising John that’d she’d call as soon as she got home, Mary took John home, and the Anderson’s followed suit, returning home themselves. Molly stuck around to continue chatting with Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade was passed out at the kitchen table, having had a few too many to drink. Jay had stepped outside to take a call for Roza. Sherlock sat with his brother Mycroft, holding his newly-christened grandson in his arms. Sherlock admired how peacefully the tiny baby slumbered in his arms, how utterly trusting he must be to sleep so deeply in just about anyone’s embrace. Mycroft was staring at Lucifer, an odd grimace on his face giving away his uncertainty.

“Looks like the Holmes line won’t die out after all,” Mycroft finally said after a long silence.

“Looks like it,” Sherlock responded, keeping his voice low to soothe the sleeping infant.

“You think he’ll be like us?” There was a hint of anticipation in Mycroft’s usually calculated tone.

“Maybe,” Sherlock shrugged a bit. “Who knows?”

They lapsed back into silence, both of them caught up in the calming sight of their snoozing heir.

“What do you think he’ll grow up to be?” Sherlock wondered aloud. “A detective or a politian?”

Mycroft couldn’t help but smile. “Most likely a pirate.”

Sherlock returned the expression. “Kind of like his uncle Valentin.”

“Perhaps.”

“Is he still traveling around, Valentin?”

“Yes,” Mycroft answered. “We’ve been in touch. I suspect he’ll return to London soon. We have some business to discuss.”

The relaxed atmosphere of the flat was disturbed as Jay came back up the stairs, is face gone pale and his eyes rather distant. Sherlock was the first to notice, handing off Lucifer to Mycroft so as to check on his son.

“Everything alright, Jay?”

Jay gulped, taking in a tremulous breath. “It’s Roza… she’s-…. I have to go…”

“And Lucifer?”

Jay came back to himself, straightening up, eyes full of remorse as he looked to his peaceful son. Sherlock could tell he was at a loss, torn between his son and his wife.

“We’ll look after him while you’re gone,” Sherlock said firmly.

Jay looked to him in surprise. “Would you?”

“We _all_ will,” Added Molly with a smile. “Just to be sure Sherlock doesn’t go absolutely bonkers.”

Sherlock muttered darkly, but it was clear he was a bit embarrassed.

“Thank you, all of you!” Jay was extraordinarily reassured. “I promise I won’t be long! I’ve dealt with this sort of thing before.”

Before waiting for any more gushy exchange of sentiments, Jay dashed back down the stairs and ran outside, getting in his car and revving the engine, driving away at an illegally fast speed.

Lucifer was disturbed from his slumber by the engine of his father’s car, blinking his blue blue-green eyes heavily and stirring. Molly came over and took the infant from Mycroft, cuddling him close.

“Don’t worry Luke,” she murmured lovingly. “Your Aunt Molly’s here for you.”

Lucifer’s eyelids fluttered shut once more, and soon after his breathing grew steady and slowed. Sherlock watched Molly with the baby, then checked the clock.

“I can take him, Molly. It’s getting rather late.”

“It’s alright, Sherlock,” Molly smiled. “I’ll stay. I can call off tomorrow, no problem.”

Sherlock smiled softly. “He’s a lucky kid to have you looking out for him, Molly Hooper.”


	49. Chapter 49

James was tired, and after a long, drawn out night of laying restless, tangled in Kate Eloise’s slumbering embrace, he was finally feeling his eyelids grow heavy. But the glowing numbers on their digital clock told James it was time to get up. So while the sun was still tucked away beneath the horizon, and while Kate Eloise lay with her hair veiling her face and her arms around the pillow James had put in his stead, James pulled on a pair of jeans, a textured grey shirt, and a black jacket, slipped into his sneakers, wrote out a note full of raunchy promises he’d fulfill to make up for his absence, and silently eased his way out the door and into the streets, waiting in uneasy silence for the cab he had called days in advance to take him to the airport.

He wasStepping into one of Mycroft’s private jets James had managed to hijack for the day, he couldn’t help but rethink what he was doing. After all, he had been thinking about it and rethinking it for months now. But the longer he spent with his Kate Eloise, sharing in her love while being so painfully aware of the careful lie he was living, the more determined he was to seek out his resolve. But still, even now so far into his plan, James was terrified. He could hear Kate speak the word in his darkest dreams, could see it waiting on her lips when the alcohol pushed him to let the ugly truth come retching out of him and spilling at her feet. _Murderer_.

James shivered violently, shifting in his plush leather seat and fixing his eyes out the window to gaze upon the expansive field of clouds just out of reach. His mind drifted away from the task at hand, falling instead on the topic of Lucifer, his more-or-less nephew. He had grown so much in the last year, in both size and personality. He and Jay visited at unpredictable intervals, which lasted for varying lengths of time. Sometimes, they would visit for the weekend and be back again for the next. Sometimes they would go home and not show up again for a month or two. Most of the time, Jay would come just to drop Lucifer off with someone—usually Molly Hooper—and then disappear for a length of time. Everyone always worried he wouldn’t come back. But no matter what, Jay always came back for his son. At least thus far.

James smiled as he pictured Lucifer, with his thick curly black hair and his misty green-blue eyes with flecks of gold clustering around the center. On his own, he was quiet, eyes brimming with pensive wonder at the world around him; with others, he lights up, smiling brightly, dimples showing on his cheeks, eyes crinkling into zealous crescent moons. Sherlock spent every last second of his free time with his grandson, shining in his role as the father figure he neglected to be once before. Even James had grown fond of the one-year-old, spending days with him and Kate Eloise at the park and eating ice cream and tossing around dozens of balloons and laying in a field of daisies. James grew to like the idea of having kids. More accurately, James grew fond of the sight that was Kate Eloise taking on a motherly role. She was a natural with Lucifer, and it made James’ heart melt to think of having a kid together and spending the rest of his life with her.

But then it would all come back to him, the elephant in the room that stood between James and a happy future: he _was_ a murderer. Denying the truth wouldn’t make it disappear, nor would it make him feel better about it all. James wondered if anything ever really could, but he had to try something. The sun was rising and washing the clouds in a soft gold; James’ chest felt a crushing squeeze as he thought of Kate Eloise, how she would be waking up soon, how she would find his side of the bed to be empty; he thought of her face, of the coy smile hovering about her lips and she would tip-toed from the bedroom and try to catch him unawares in the kitchen or the living room, of the look of confusion and worry when all she found was a note explaining he had an important errand to run; James wondered if his silly little promises would make her blush, and smile with her tongue pressed to her teeth, a giggle coming out her nose, or if the promises would do nothing to cheer up the ashen face that had stuck after realizing he had left.

The jet landed in Copenhagen. James exited and climbed into an awaiting cab. He tried to rehearse what he would do in his mind, but it had gone numb, and James could do nothing but stare out the window of the cab and watch the countryside zip by as his destination drew ever closer. It was a long drive, taking James deep into the remote countryside on winding little dirt roads and jostling gravel paths. But then the road suddenly became paved once more. The cab drove up a long snaking driveway to a huge mansion of a building sitting atop a grassy knoll. The cab came to a stop as the road passed in front of the mansion and then looped around on itself. James got out. The cab drove away. James had told the cabbie he would be there a long while. The cabbie wasn’t willing to wait.

James walked around the mansion, getting to the back to find a large fenced in courtyard in which many elderly were sitting around reading and many not-so-elderly sat around playing cards or playing HORSE on the torn-up basketball court. James hovered about what looked like a gate in the fence, wondering uncertainly if he had the right address, when the man he was looking for came to the gate and let James in.

“Glad you could make it,” he said.

James nodded. “Thanks for giving me the location, Moran.”

The burly man nodded solemnly. “Follow me.”

James followed Moran through the maze of picnic tables and benches and wheelchairs, feeling like turning back and going home, feeling like it was all a mistake, wondering if it was really worth it, coming here.

“James, my boy!”

James went rigid, unable to imagine what his eyes were seeing. Shabby clothes. Shaven head with only a defined greyness to show for months of hair growth. Jagged scars on his skull. Face unshaven, smattered with stubble. The wheelchair. He was so thin…

“Come on, come play chess with me,” Moriarty smiled in his thin, disingenuous fashion. “You see, James, Moran can organize a team of dozens to perform a flawless heist without any problem, but ask the man to play chess with you, and he suddenly has no grasp of strategy whatsoever.”

James sat down across from Moriarty at the stone chess table, helping him to reset all the pieces on the board. They did so in silence, beginning to move their pawns; rooks and bishops were in play when James finally spoke up again.

“I got the will money,” he said quietly, almost hoping he wouldn’t be heard.

“Good. I’m glad.”

“What was that all about?”

“Well I don’t need it anymore. I’m set for life right here at this happy little covert retirement home.”

“What about your business? Your network? Your clients?”

“Can’t do it anymore. I’m paralyzed, thanks to you.”

“But you don’t do anything face to face. It’s all second hand or strictly text only. You could still keep it up.”

“A business like the one I had requires quite a front to keep it going. I can’t give a front if I’m chair-bound. And if my successors have all jumped ship.”

“I-….” James faltered. “I thought I killed you…”

Moriarty smiled again. “James, you never _wanted_ to kill me. You just wanted me out of the picture. And that’s exactly what you did. Without my front, without my business and my network, I’m just about as far out of frame as I can possibly get.”

“So you’re paralyzed then?” James didn’t know if he felt better or worse, moving a pawn.

“Yup,” Moriarty gestured to himself, then moved his knight to take James’ rook. “From the waist down. Your bullet caught my in the skull, did some brain damage, but nothing more harmful then the paralysis that came as a secondary side-effect. Something about post-brain surgery causing an imbalance in cerebral fluid which led to the mass death of nerves in my lumbar region; that’s what caused the paralysis.”

“I see….” James moved his queen and took revenge on the knight.

“So,” Moriarty said, eyes on James. “Just out of curiosity, how’s Jay? Did he overdose yet?”

“No actually, he quit the drugs,” James watched his king get put into check. “Because he’s got a kid now.”

“Does he?” He frowned as his check was foiled by a pawn that took his bishop.

“Yeah, Lucifer Holmes.” James put Moriarty’s king into check.

“Holmes?” Moriarty’s voice rose a little out of curiosity. “So old Sherlock finally made amends?”

“You knew?” James cocked an eyebrow. “You knew Jay was Sherlock’s son?”

“Of course I knew,” Moriarty scoffed.

“But you called him your son! You even kept him in the will! How long have you known?”

A ghost of a real smile hovered on Moriarty’s lips. “I think I’ve honestly always known. From the moment his hair got too long and turned all curly. I kept it cut, kept it styled so the curls were subdued, but he was always so much like Sherlock. It was irksome at times, but I let it slide.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Moriarty looked intently at the chess table to hide his expression. “My son or not, he was still good at what I needed him for. He was angry, and that anger was easily channeled into violence, and that violence into an art that I could sell.”

“How long did Jay know you weren’t his father?”

“I think deep down, he always knew, too. Despite taking on my surname, he never once called me ‘dad’ or ‘father’ or anything of the sort. Not once.”

“If it was so obvious, why did you take him in as your son?”

“Because I thought he was, when I first heard about him,” Moriarty admitted. “Word got to me that Irene Adler had a son, and Irene and I had engaged in sexual activities about nine months prior….”

“But Sherlock-…?”

“Had as well,” Moriarty stated matter-of-factly. “He got her out of a deadly situation and she repaid him with a night together. But she needed continual protection, or at least the connections to make that sort of thing possible.”

“So she came to you.”

“And my plan for an heir was only a mere inkling of an idea at the time, but I saw the opportunity, and I took it.”

“And me?”

“Well, Jay was a failure. He _wasn’t_ my son, so he couldn’t be my heir. So I honed the plan, picked out your mother only for her knowledge and experience in the field of human cloning and the study of artificial reproduction.”

“Cloning?”

“Yes, cloning. I wanted a clone of myself. My DNA, and my DNA only. But your mother convinced me that the techniques were too flawed, the outcomes too imperfect. And so I compromised. Half of my DNA was better than none.”

James took a minute to soak it all in. “And Valentin?”

“Nothing but a mistake that should have never happened.”

“Go on. I’m listening.”

Moriarty sighed impatiently. “My death was convincing, but Sherlock was tearing apart my network, and I had nowhere to lay low without the risk of him discovering that I still lived. Which was not part of my plan. So I went to a remote part of Russia, spent a night out drinking. The alcohol is much stronger in Russia than in England. I was drunk out of my mind, and a Russian prostitute noticed my expensive taste in alcohol and decided to empty my pockets with her services. You make many mistakes when you become too drunk. For me, Valentin will always be my biggest drunken mistake.”

“But you pulled him out of Russia eventually.”

“He wasn’t without his uses. And like it or not, he was my son. Illegitimate, but mine. And unlike your buddy Sherlock, I don’t shirk my responsibilities as a father.”

James snorted. Moriarty narrowed his eyes.

“But I know you didn’t come here to reminisce. Why are you here, James?”

James fell silent, hands folded and knuckles going white from the tight grip.

“I need advice…” He began uncertainly. “Look, I’m-…. I think I’m going to turn myself in.”

“What?” Moriarty smirked. “To the police?”

James nodded.

“Because you’re a _murderer_?” The word dripped with sarcasm.

James flinched ever so slightly but nodded again.

Moriarty turned dark. “You honestly think that will make you feel better!? Spending twenty years in jail, locked away in solitary confinement, losing your mind piece by _bloody_ _piece_!?”

“I need to come out, I need to confess…” James’ voice was barely audible beneath the seething rage of his father.

“And why the hell would you need to do that!?”

James tensed, suddenly sitting up straight and looking Moriarty determinedly in the eye.

“For Kate Eloise,” James said evenly. “So I can start over with her. So I can marry her.”

It was Jim’s turn to fall silent, all his frustration gone as his shoulders slumped and his face grew immeasurably tired.

“You’re going to marry her?” Moriarty’s voice had gone quiet.

“I am,” James replied, matching his father’s tone.

“You really love her then?” He ran a hand through over his cropped post-surgery hair, leaning back in his wheelchair.

“Yeah, I really do. More than anything in the world, or anything beyond it.”

“And… she loves you, too?”

“So far,” James‘ eyes clouded with worry. “We’ll see how she feels after I confess.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s for the best,” Moriarty sighed.

James was surprised, looking at his father, but Moriarty was lost in thought. He looked so old, with his hair gone grey and his face all aged and serious; so pathetic in his wheelchair and his lost eyes. James looked away.

“James,” Moriarty looked to his son, pain written all over his face. “I give you my blessing. I could want nothing else for you now but for you to be happy, and if that’s how Ms. Watson has you feeling, I wish for the two of you to spend eternity together.”

“Thank you,” James’ voice cracked; he wasn’t quite sure why, but he was almost crying.

“And if you should need me to testify on your behalf in court, if you turn yourself in for your murders, I will be there and I shall reduce your sentence in any way I can.”

“ _Legally_ ,” James corrected, getting a sigh from his father.

“Any way I _legally_ can,” Moriarty amended. “Your criminal past is entirely my fault, after all.”

James nodded, feeling that if he spoke again he might break down into tears. And he didn’t want Moriarty to see him that way.

“You should be going,” Moriarty said, already knowing the emotional state his son was in.

James got up from the chess table, Moran having returned to walk him to the gate. James turned on his heel to go, resolute in his plans. But he had unfinished business to attend to first. Turning back, James moved his knight on the chess table, smiling.

“Check mate,” he said, turning and walking away before he could see the proud smile on his father’s face.


	50. Chapter 50

James stifled a yawn as best he could, eyes burning with exhaustion as he kept them fixed on the dusky road ahead. There was no one, or at least very few others, out driving so early on a Saturday morning, and far fewer who were doing so on such a disheveled, winding country road. Beside James in the passenger seat, Kate Eloise lay sleeping, seat reclined as far back as it would go, head resting on her folded hands, hair still tousled from bed. She mumbled faintly, shifting into a more comfortable position before going completely still, fast asleep. James looked at her lovingly for a few seconds before returning his eyes to the road. After all, this tiny, rinky-dink road was pocked with bumps and holes, and James felt the need to avoid every last one, so that his Kate Eloise could sleep as soundly as possible.

The sky was beginning to lighten up as James rolled the Impala to a halt and put it in park. The gentle buck of the car as its wheels locked up was just enough to rouse Kate Eloise, who blinked sleepily as she looked around, trying to figure out where she was.

“Are we here?” She groaned as she stretched her stiff limbs, watching as James walked around and opened the car door for her. “Are we late?”

James smiled softly as he helped her out of the car. “Just in time.”

The sight was truly breathtaking. The sun was just breaking over the horizon, splintering the dusky sky with bright rays of rose and sherbet, turning the clouds a soft peachy gold. The meadow that stretched before the couple, too, was beautifully lit; the grass glittered like twinkling stars as the sun struck the dew, each blade bathed in soft light on one side and cloaked in shadow on the other, causing the field to appear like a painting of gold and black strokes.

Kate Eloise stared in awe, faintly aware of the hand that took a hold of her own. Her eyes pulled away from the breathtaking sunrise to look lovingly upon the man who had fought sleep and exhaustion to drive all this way, just to show the sight to her. Her smile was just as radiant as the spectacle itself, her hair and face stunning in the soft rays of the morning. James smiled, but his happiness was marred with the looming worry plaguing his mind. Slowly, Kate Eloise’s wondrous smile faded into a concerned frown.

“What’s the matter, Jamie?” She asked quietly, not wanting to disturb the engulfing peace given off by the deserted meadow.

James gathered himself, managing a quirky half smile, pressing his forehead to hers. “I just remembered…. the napkins, they’re home on our kitchen table.”

Kate immediately brightened back up, laughing, her arms coming up to wrap around James’ neck.

“We don’t need any silly old napkins,” she giggled. “I’m sure whatever you brought is more than enough.”

James grinned, slipping from her embrace as he made his way to the trunk of his car to fetch the picnic basket, the smile dropping from his face the moment he turned his back to Kate Eloise. Throwing open the trunk, James grabbed a hold of the wicker basket Kate had bought especially for the occasion; James tossed their checkered blue blanket over his shoulder and shoved another few odds and ends out of sight before shutting the trunk. Walking back around to the front of the car, James found Kate to have gone off ahead a little ways, standing mesmerized by the further beauty that was bestowed upon the scene as the sun grew higher on the horizon. Walking over silently, James set the basket down and shook out the blanket, laying it atop the grass and sitting down, patting beside him for Kate Eloise to join. With a smile, she gladly did, stretching her legs out and leaning back on her palms, leaning sideways onto James. James felt increasingly uneasy, his hand moving instinctively to his pocket and gathering strength from what it found there.

“Shall we eat?” He asked with a playful smile, though his eyes still shone with nerves.

Kate Eloise grinned and leaned into him further. “Why not?”

Still maintaining his soft, shy smile, James opened up the wicker basket and pulled out a bowl of glistening, ruby-red strawberries, presenting them to Kate Eloise with a cheeky raise of his eyebrows. She grinned, biting her lip, taking a hold of one of the fruits—top cut off and cored—and popping it into her mouth, smiling with her cheeks full. James laughed through his nose, taking one himself and biting into it, his taste buds immediately washed in the sweet, sticky juice. It was so simple, their love for one another. Not a word needed to be said as they helped themselves to the strawberries, but every word that may have been spoken was conveyed through the twinkles in their eyes. A bashful gaze said “I love you.” A timid smile replied “I love you too.”

When the fruit was all gone, the couple sat back and watched the sun rise higher together, feeling its warmth begin to soak into their faces as the rays reached out to them in a greeting of good morning.

“It’s beautiful,” James remarked, voice low.

“Yeah, it is.”

“Kate?”

“Yeah?”

“There’s…. there’s something I need to tell you. Two things, really.” James rubbed the back of his neck, nervous.

Kate snuggled in close to his side. “Alright, but there’s something I need to tell you first.”

“What’s that?” James looked down at her, concerned.

She looked up at him and smiled adoringly. “I love you.”

James gulped, feeling suddenly quite icy cold under the endearing gaze of her big, innocent hazel eyes. His hands felt clammy, sweaty; his throat tightened up, trying to block the words that threatened to spill out; a sudden feeling a faintness washed over him like a bucket dumped over his head. _Was he really going to tell her?_

“Look…. Kate….” James gulped again and took a deep breath, feeling his throat tighten again as Kate took a hold of his hand and gave it a squeeze. “I have a confession…. a-about my past….. something I haven’t told you…. o-o-or anyone, really…”

“You can tell me anything Jamie,” Kate reassured, suddenly acutely aware of James’ trembling hands and overwhelming nerves. “Honestly, you can.”

“All those times… I disappeared… went to see my dad when he sent for me…. All those years I spent traveling around…. what we were doing…. what _I_ was doing….”

“James….”

“I _killed_ people, Kate…”

“Your father, James-…”

“I’m a _murderer_ ….!”

“James, it’s alright-…”

“A _murderer_ , Kate…!!”

“I know, James!” Kate took a hold of both his hands, staring with growing concern into the frantic, troubled grey eyes of the love of her life, lowering her voice as he grew calmer. “I know. I’ve always known, in a sense.”

“You-…. You knew…?” James could hardly believe his ears.

Kate looked away bashfully, nodding a bit. “Sort of…. I suspected, at least. I knew you were up to no good with your dad. That a man like that could only want you for a terrible purpose.”

“And…” James felt light-headed with the relief flooding through him. “And you still love me?”

Kate answered him with a kiss, spontaneous and passionate, pulling away only the slightest distance. “Of course, dumbass. I’ve always loved you. Loose screws and all.”

James pulled her into a hug, tight and desperate, burying his face in her fragrant hair, blinking back the tears that sprung in his eyes. There wasn’t a single moment in which he had loved her more. His Kate Eloise, who loved him, every last bit of him. But as much as he wanted to let go, to let bygones be bygones, he just couldn’t. He couldn’t be free until he did something about the guilt holding him back.

“James?” Kate’s voice came muffled from where it nuzzled into James’ shirt, but her concern was loud and clear. “There’s more. What’s wrong?”

“I confessed.”

Kate pulled away like she had been scalded, eyes huge with disbelief. “What!?”

James never thought a single word could cut into his heart as deeply as Kate’s did. When he answered, his voice was barely audible, full of shame, full of guilt.

“I called Lestrade, on the way here, while you slept. I confessed to all the murders I committed. Told him I had the evidence to prove I was responsible. And I _do_. In the trunk. All the files of all the clients my father ever had me take care of.”

Kate was on her feet, screaming. “James, why would you do such a stupid thing!?”

“I had to!” James countered, hurt worse at the sight of his beloved so furious with him.

“You dumbass!!” Kate yelled, voice broken with sobs. “You selfish prick!! I _love_ you James!! What am I going to do without you!?”

James ducked his head, hands in his pockets. “Well, I-I-I was hoping you might marry me, for starters…” He produced an elegant diamond ring, holding it up and letting the refracted light dance in their faces as he turned the ring back and forth.

Kate covered her mouth with her hand, broken-hearted sobs mixing with sobs of utter joy, tears streaming down her face for the man she lost and the man who just gave himself to her.

“Kate Eloise Watson,” James got down on one knee, looking up at her with eyes timid and pained. “Will you do me the honor of being my lovely wife?”

“Oh God James!” She sobbed breathlessly. “Your timing is just awful!” Kate threw herself at James, wrapping her arms around him in a hug that forgave him and accepted his offer all in one gesture. James wrapped his arms tightly around her, twirling her in a circle and grinning as she squeaked in surprise. Setting her on her feet, he took her face in both hands and wiped the tears from her face with his thumbs, tears racing down his own cheeks unchecked.

“I promise you, Kate,” he breathed resolutely. “One day, I will come home to you. And I will be forgiven, not only in the eyes of the law, but by myself as well. And when that day comes, we will start our lives together anew. And we’ll be married in the happiest wedding London has ever seen. And we’ll buy a big old house together and have kids and grow old and grow carrots in the garden and-”

“Slow down there!” Kate laughed, covering James’ mouth. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

James frowned, suddenly worried that Kate hadn’t actually said a formal ‘yes’ to his proposal.

Kate raised an eyebrow at him. “Who said anything about growing carrots?”

James broke into an unchecked grin, and kissed Kate without hesitation. She kissed right back, arms wrapping around his neck and drawing the two of them together, their first kiss as fiancés.

____________________________

     It was a crushing silence that clung between Kate Eloise and James as they sat on their blanket side by side, knowing that these moments together were due to be their last for quite a long time. But what does one say to fill these precious moments? Tears ran silently down Kate’s face and dripped onto her hand that clasped tightly to James’. By the shimmer in his unfocused eyes, it was clear James was close to crying again himself. Turning his head slowly, James’ eyes fell on the ring that glittered on Kate’s ring finger. His hand reached for it, fiddling with it unconsciously as he waited. Kate leaned her head on his shoulder, sniffling as she wiped her tears onto his sleeve. Leaning over gently, James placed a soft kiss onto the top of her head, breathing in the floral scent of her hair longingly.

     The sound of tires on the road reached the two of them, James standing to see Lestrade pull up in his police car, parking beside James’ Impala. Lestrade got out, hand remaining on the car door as he stared at James, seeming unsure, doubting. James gulped, looking back to find Kate staring up at him, legs drawn up to her chest, tears filling her eyes once more. With a heavy heart and a numbness filling him, James offered up one last goofy half-smile as he fished the car keys from his pocket, kneeling to bestow them into her hands, cupping them in his.

     “See you soon then, your majesty?”

Kate managed a little laugh and a partial smile. “If you’re lucky, Duke of Teddington.”

“Then I intend to be lucky,” James folded her hands over the keys and brought them to his lips, gracing them with a lingering kiss. “Anything for my bride-to-be.”

Standing, James covered the short distance over to Lestrade, puffing out his chest with a renewed sense of confidence and closure. “Hello Detective Inspector.”

“James, what the hell do you think you’re doing, confessing to all these murders?”

“I’m coming clean.”  James answered flatly, popping the trunk on his car and pulling out a sizable manila folder. “Here’s your murders.”

Lestrade took the folder and leafed through it, his face turning ashen and his expression grave as he noted the abundance of profiles. “James, you’re serious right now?”

“As serious as I’ve ever been, Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade fixed him with a distrusting stare. “Why would you confess if you could’ve gotten away with it?”

“Because I would’ve known who was responsible. And keeping that secret any longer would drive me to my grave.”

“You’re bloody mental, you are,” Lestrade shook his head.

“Last time I checked, _that_ wasn’t a crime. These,” James tapped the folder. “These are crimes of the highest degree.”

“That they are,” Lestrade agreed bitterly, pulling out a pair of handcuffed and fastening them James’ wrists behind his back.

Lestrade marched James to his car and ducked him into the back seat, leaning in. “I’ll tell you James, I hope you’ve got more than an “I’m sorry” up your sleeve. For her sake.” He nodded back towards Kate, who sat motionless, hugging her knees.

James turned away, staring blankly ahead at the seat in front of him. _Court_. He had completely forgotten about it. “I hope so, too, Detective.”

The police car wailed its sirens and drove off down the road back towards the city. Clouds had gathered over the meadow, and rain began to drip, foreshadowing a deluge close to being unleashed. Kate Eloise didn’t budge. She didn’t want to leave; it all felt too surreal, like a dream, and a bad one at that. She felt as if she should stay long enough, James would come back. He would have forgotten something. Maybe he had one last thing to say. If she would just wait…

Rain soaked the window of the police car as James stared out, thoughts fixed solely on his love. He had won her heart, only to ask for it in marriage and then immediately crush it with his foolish confession. And with separation came room for doubt to creep in to James’ heart. What reason would Kate have to wait for him? How long would she wait? How long would he be in jail? _Oh God_ , he thought in a rising panic. _That’s it. I’ve lost her. She’s gone_.


	51. Chapter 51

Fortunately, by the time Lestrade came around to knocking at the door of 221B Baker Street, Sherlock had already heard the news and had calmed down considerably. As it were, Valentin—only recently returned to London—had received a call from a heart-broken Kate Eloise about James confessing and getting taken into custody, and Valentin hadn’t wasted a second in calling Sherlock to tell them the news. Evening was settling in, and the news playing on the television rattled on about a potential lead on more than a score of murder cases that had gone cold as Sherlock stared out the window distractedly, deep in thought. The bell rang. Mrs. Hudson shuffled to the door and answered. Lestrade bounded up the stairs in a state of anger and confusion.

“What the hell, Sherlock! Did you know this kid killed over thirty people!?”

Sherlock didn’t bother to face the Detective Inspector, arms folded behind his back as his eyes scanned the darkening streets below. “Well, I couldn’t exactly say for sure it was James….”

“Sherlock!!” Lestrade’s tone was something between furious and pleading.

Sherlock turned and eyed the man evenly. “What? I couldn’t. There were three of them, after all.”

“ _Three_!? Three murderers!?” Lestrade’s jaw nearly fell off.

Sherlock immediately turned back to his window. “You know what? Ignore me. I’m in shock. I’m shocked that James would do such a thing! Terrible, terrible kid! Well, actually it was his terrible father, but I’m sure you’ll get there eventually, Lestrade.”

Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs, making her way to the kitchen. “What are you two on about now?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh not now, Mrs. Hudson. George and I are just having a little dispute, that’s all.”

“For the hundredth time, Sherlock, my name is Greg!”

Sherlock turned on Lestrade dramatically. “Don’t try and change the subject, Craig. The murders, remember?”

“Oh for God’s sake!!” Lestrade threw up his hands in exasperation.

Sherlock’s eyes grew dark, and his tone became low and serious. “Lestrade, he _can’t_ go to jail.”

“Well he’s going to!” Lestrade huffed. “The kid’s got no defense!”

“Listen to me,” Sherlock bit. “This wasn’t his doing. He’s not responsible for all those deaths.”

“Responsible or not, Sherlock, he confessed.” Lestrade bowed his head a bit in sympathy.

“No, you don’t understand,” Sherlock was growing impatient, angry. “He’s not well. _Mentally_ well. There’s _got_ to be some angle we can spin to get him off the hook!”

“Look, I’m sorry Sherlock,” Lestrade sighed. “I know how much he means to you. But all we can do now is hope the judge gives him a chance for parole.”

Sherlock was silent, eyes burning into Lestrade’s back as the man turned and left the flat, only to have another figure climb the stairs in his stead. Mycroft eyed his brother coldly, a hint of worry furrowing his brow.

“I heard the news, brother dear,” he sighed, leaning forward on his umbrella. “I’m sorry to hear about young master James.”

“Is it true? Did he really murder over thirty people?”

Sherlock fixed the unknown boy with a haughty glare, immediately pinning him as American by his accent and one of Mycroft’s associates by his level of grooming.

Mycroft smiled, as if reading Sherlock’s thoughts. “Sherlock, I’d like you to meet young Charles King. An associate of mine, if you haven’t already guessed.”

The boy gave a dimpled smirk, extended a tanned hand towards Sherlock. “Call me Charlie. Valentin’s told me loads about you, Mr. Holmes.”

“Valentin?” Sherlock’s surprise was venomous.

“Yeah,” Charlie chuckled a bit. “We’ve been traveling around together for a while now. I’m his boyfriend.”

“You’re his recruiter,” Sherlock corrected darkly, his eyes shifting to Mycroft with a hatred that went beyond words. “You are _not_ to trap that poor boy in your convoluted work, Mycroft.”

“I’m afraid your threat is a little late, brother mine, as young Valentin has already been contracted in.”

“Then release him from his service.”

“It’s not quite that simple, Sherlock. As you are well aware.”

Sherlock stared his brother down with a seething fury, wanting to rip him apart, wanting to do a thousand injustices to him, but he was all too aware that now wasn’t the time to be at odds with his brother. Not while James sat staring into the gaping maw of a life in prison.

“I should hope you’ve pulled some strings on James’ behalf, Mycroft.” Sherlock changed the subject evenly, though allowing himself one last loathing glare at Mycroft’s American puppet.

“I’m sorry to say there’s nothing I can do at the moment,” Mycroft sighed with an exaggerated raise of the eyebrows. “But perhaps later. We’ll see how things play out.”

“You know _exactly_ how things will play out, Mycroft. James will be sentenced to life in prison. Then he’ll go absolutely insane. And then we’ll never see hide nor hair of him again, locked away in some hole like an animal.”

“Not if I involve myself, Sherlock. Don’t fret so much. I’ll pull some strings, get him enrolled in a program for his illness. Perhaps, with improvement, he’ll be allowed to live a normal, drug-induced life of happiness with his beloved Ms. Watson.”

“We can’t rely on that, Mycroft.” Sherlock was pacing furiously. “If he doesn’t get into a program like that, if he doesn’t get better, then we’ve got no way of helping him. No, we have to act _now_. We have to convince the damn judge that James is innocent.”

“He’s _not_ innocent, Sherlock,” Mycroft gently reminded.

”But he’s not guilty, either! He’s an accessory, he’s a victim of manipulation, of mental illness!”

“There’s no chance they’ll let him walk, Sherlock. The justice system _needs_ a guilty party. And James has confessed. Guilty or not, he’s going to be blamed. And serve the time.”

“Not is someone _else_ confesses.” Sherlock said quietly.

Mycroft frowned intensely. “Sherlock, don’t do anything stupid.”

“Not stupid, Mycroft. But perhaps impossible.” Sherlock threw on his coat, heading for the door.

“What on Earth are you up to, Sherlock Holmes?” Mycroft called after him chidingly.

“Finding the man who’s really responsible for those murders!” He yelled back. “Jim Moriarty!”

____________________________

Not a single soul at the Watson household was spared the sound of Kate Eloise’s broken sobs and whimpers, which had subsided in intensity through the day, but never ceased entirely. Having locked herself away in her old bedroom after John insisted she come and stay at home, the rest of the family tip-toed about the main floor, perfectly silent, pained gazes meeting others as two would pass from room to room. Mary was busying herself in the kitchen, cooking up a storm of Kate’s favorite dishes in an attempt to simultaneously cheer her daughter up and provide some sustenance; Kate hadn’t eaten all day aside from the strawberries she shared with James at sunrise. John shuffled around papers in his office between his attempts to make angry phone calls to Sherlock, muttering under his breath about how he knew James was no good. Valentin hung around the stairwell by the front door, lounging about and waiting optimistically for Kate to finally come down.

Valentin fond his spirits to be utterly damped upon his return to London. He had just flown in with Charlie to find another one of Mycroft’s jets missing. Assuming foul play on one of his brother’s behalf, Valentin called Kate, and upon hearing how worried she was over James’ disappearance, Valentin had waited to confront James at the landing sight. The reunion of the two brothers was not nearly as pleasant as Valentin had often hoped it would be. Words were exchanged in short, angry snaps. Bluffs were called, tempers boiled, words were thrown about that neither of them meant. When Valentin left the runway with Charlie, a sinking feeling had already planted itself in his chest. He _knew_ James had been up to no good. Why hadn’t he confronted him? Prevented him from doing something so stupid? Valentin bowed his head, exhausted, fatigued, and emotionally spent from providing his foster sister comfort. John and Mary had hardly spared him a hello, let alone a warm welcome back. He was nineteen now. He wondered if they knew.

The front door opened slowly, and Valentin looked to find Charlie on the other side, entering with extreme caution, teeth clenched together and eyes wide in a look of utter anxiousness.

“Is the coast clear?” He whispered, face pressed in the thin space between the door and its frame.

Valentin nodded, watching as his boyfriend entered the house with the stealth of a cat, shutting the door without so much as the tiniest of squeaks. With a roguish grin, he sat himself down a step blow the one Valentin sat on, patting Valentin’s leg reassuringly.

“How’s the birthday going, Tin?” Charlie asked in his raspy American voice, the sinful smirk he sported clear that he knew the answer.

“It’s going,” Valentin shrugged, noting the scent of hair gel permeating the shaggy, sandy brown hair of his partner, despite disheveled appearance. As Valentin’s eyes trailed further, he noted the disheveled shirt and jeans that Charlie had worn the day before, that had been tossed out onto their hotel bed, though his posture suggested he was wearing something stiff, fitted, fancy. Defeated and worn out as Valentin was from the long day, he let the matter slide, didn’t question his boyfriend further about his incongruences.

“Whatdya say we ditch this place,” Charlie’s brooding dark eyes glittered with mischief. “Go to a bar or sumthin. Do sumthin fun! It _is_ your big day after all.”

Valentin sighed, rubbing at his stingy, tired eyes. “No thanks, Charlie. I think it’s best I stay here. Help out with family matters.”

Charlie heaved an overly emphasized sigh, purposefully leaning himself back between Valentin’s legs, using them as armrests, tapping his fingers in an impatient wave on Valentin’s knee.

Valentin rolled his eyes. “Why don’t _you_ go to a bar and drink enough for the two of us? How does that sound, _sladkyy_?”

The American’s dark eyes flickered up to read Valentin’s face, dimples popping out on his cheeks as his jaw tensed.

“I don’t think it’s worth it at this point,” Charlie mused, gnawing his lip thoughtfully. “Besides, we have that early-morning meeting with that Mycroft character tomorrow, remember?”

“That’s right,” Valentin sighed, feeling more weight added to his already slumped shoulders, his eyes brimming with apology. “I’m sorry I got you involved in this whole secret spy operation gig, Charlie. Mr. Mycroft has been trying to lure me into joining for ages, but I never thought he’d involve you, too.”

Charlie looked towards the door, hiding his face behind his bangs. “S’alright, Tin. If it means I get to be with you when you’re in the most danger, that I get to watch your back, then I’m happy.”

Valentin couldn’t help but smile, feeling butterflies in his stomach. “If I’m hearing correctly, it sounds like you might actually _care_ about me Charles Thomas King.”

Charlie scoffed, pulling away from Valentin as he sat forward, arms crossed across his drawn-up knees. “Better get your ears checked, Tin-man. You’re hearing things.”

Valentin scooted down a step, wrapping his arms around Charlie’s neck and nuzzling his nose into his messy hair, engulfing himself in the overwhelming scent of his hair gel and cologne.

“I love you,” Valentin mumbled, eyes finally closing, succumbing to his exhaustion.

Charlie’s tone softened, reaching up a hand to hold Valentin up by his chest. “Yeah, I know. Love you too, I guess.”

Valentin let out a soft laugh through his nose, his characteristic smile spreading on his face. “Mind if I sleep here?” His voice was fading.

“Go right ahead, muffin-head.” Charlie rolled his eyes to compensate for his blushing.

Valentin’s voice could barely be made out as he drifted off to sleep. “You’re terrible with nicknames…”

“I’m working on it, borscht-breath.”

“Better…”

“Thanks.” Charlie paused to wait for a response, but Valentin’s breathing had become slow and his body lay heavily against his own.

Not wanting to disturb him, Charlie shifted in very slow, subtle movements until he became comfortable, then shut his eyes to catch some sleep of his own. As he slowly edged towards sleep, he wondered if he was in too deep. Did he really love Valentin as much as it felt he did? Had it all become more than just a mission, getting close with him? There was no time to figure such things out. Little did Charlie realize, but he was just as fatigued as his boyfriend. With his eyes shut, it was only a matter of minutes before he was out cold on the steps of the Watson’s, still serving as Valentin’s pillow, still reeking of hair gel and cologne.

____________________________

The night that commenced was the longest one James had ever experienced in his lifetime. The holding cell at Scotland Yard was cold, quiet, lonely. James sat curled up on the old, moldy mattress, staring blankly at the silvery moonlight cast onto the floor by a small, high window. Clouds would pass by the moon, casting shadows on the cell floor. James watched them and thought of his family, of his friends, of his uncertain future, of a future without them.

Kate Eloise. The mere thought of her crushed down on James’ heart, stabbed an aching pain throughout his chest. What would it be like if he hadn’t confessed, if he had just given her the ring and called it a day? Would Sherlock be proud? Would John Watson give him one of his untrusting death stares, or would he be happy for his daughter and her fiancé? Would Mrs. Hudson cry happy tears as she chided the two of them and claim to have known they would marry from the start? James couldn’t help but smile ever so faintly. Of course Mrs. Hudson would have done both. The smile disappeared to think of how she would be fretting over him, denying that he could ever be a murder, defending him and his integrity to her very last breath.

And how did Sherlock take it all? Did he shake his head, knowing this day would come, thinking James the idiot that James knew he was? For unlike Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock _knew_ James was far from innocent. He _knew_ James was a murder. He had _seen_ the absolute worst in James, had seen him at his lowest and most deranged. And yet Sherlock could still offer up a rare smile, a proud look in his eye whenever James did something right. He could see right through all the dark and evil in James’ past and look into the bright future that lay before him. But Sherlock was not most people. Most people would condemn a man for a lie told at the wrong place at the wrong time. A sick, twisted mass murderer like James didn’t stand a chance in the people’s feeding frenzy of justice.

“You look cold, James,” Missy said tenderly as she draped a blanket around James’ shoulders. “Is anything the matter, sweetie?”

James didn’t dare look into her deeply caring blue eyes, knowing the sight would only cause him more grief. Instead, he turned his head, putting his hands to his ears, hoping to block out the hallucinations. But in the silence of the cell, they kept coming.

“How could you have killed me?” A woman was whimpering from somewhere in the dark. “What did I ever do to you?”

“They’ll lock you up for good for what you did,” Donavan sneered from where she leaned by the door. “They find out you’re the one that gutted me, Lestrade and the others will have you on Death Row before you can even testify.”

“Oh boo-hoo,” Moriarty tsked. “Cut the kid some slack.”

James looked up, finding himself no longer in the cell, but in a courthouse, the jury filled with his friends—Molly Hooper, Mrs. Hudson, Mike Stamford, Mycroft, Anderson—and the court floor filled with his murder victims arguing with the likes of Sherlock and Moriarty and his mother. James felt ill, sitting in the witness stand, rooted to the spot and unable to budge. Sitting in front of him on the stand was a gun, loaded, calling, tempting. All he had to do was pick it up, load a chamber into his head, and be rid of the torture and guilt for good. His hand fell to the handle, the all too familiar grip that rasped his palm and dug firmly into his skin, lifting the weight of the metal and lead off the table. James felt nothing, nothing but the torturous bickering that reached his ears like needles to his brain. His eyes cast over the scene blankly, not seeing much of anything, falling to the public area that lay abandoned. Apart from one. A familiar face, when happy, but so different when so sad. Kate Eloise, ashen face, tear-stained cheeks, hollow eyes full of fear. The gun in James’ hand felt hot, burning, scorching into his flesh with the guilt that it brought. It fell from his hand and clattered onto the stand, the sharp noise causing James to jolt and the scene to disappear. The cell was all that lay before him once again.

A cold sweat had broken out all over him, his body trembled like a leaf in a hurricane, the inside of his body felt like it might boil over, while the outside felt like it was covered in ice. Teeth chattering loudly together, James huddled into the corner more tightly, feeling as though he might be sick to his stomach. His mind remained active, not allowing him the reprieve of unconsciousness, haunted by a single thought: court. He had no defense. He had no evidence to suggest his innocence. He had no reason for the judge to let him go. They’d lock him away, assign him a number in the place of his name, forget he even existed, let him rot into the grime coating the prison floor. The shivering got worse. _Maybe I’ll die before I make it to court_ , James thought bitterly. Then he thought of Kate, of her terrible saddened face from his vision, and with his last ounce of resolve, James swore he’d remain healthy, that he’d testify in court with all he had, make sure Kate Eloise was set up for life before he got locked away.

By the time morning rays breathed soft light into the dingy cell, James had formulated and revised a plan to ensure Kate Eloise would have a happy, carefree life while James was locked up, no matter for how long. James had a very weak defense, one that relied heavily on an impossible witness to testify in his favor. But knowing Kate would be safe and happy and wealthy was enough to keep James going. Breathing in deeply, James sat on the edge of the bed and waited, eyes fixed on the door, preparing himself for what would come when it finally opened and the fight to prove his innocence began.


	52. Chapter 52

The morning began much earlier than Molly Hooper had anticipated, but it would be lying to say she wasn’t used to a much earlier start by now. Before the sun had peaked over the horizon, the desperate and heart-wrenching cries of Lucifer Holmes roused her from her easy slumber. She rose from bed stiffly, not wanting to get up but not feeling begrudgingly towards the boy or his father who had requested for Molly’s help. She understood Jay’s constant reliance on her babysitting, and agreed that Lucifer was better off passed around by the people he could trust rather than getting stuck at home with his resentful, bitter mother. And when Molly Hooper scooped the two-year-old up in her arms, stroking his soft dark curls comfortingly and easing the fear from his bright sea-foam eyes, ushering in a soft, undaunted smile, she didn’t feel burdened in the slightest. Blessed was a better word.

“Ready for breakfast, Lukey-poo?” Molly cooed, carrying the small toddler into the kitchen, still yawning. “Didn’t want to waste a second of your day, now did you?”

“Hung’y, Miff Mowwy,” Lucifer slurred, rubbing his eye with a tiny, chubby fist.

Molly smiled brightly, treasuring the baby-speech while it lasted. “What are you hungry for today?”

“’Nana, pwease.”

“A banana? Anything else?”

“Chee’ios!”

“Cheerios what, sweetheart?”

“Chee’ios, pwease!”

“Alrighty then,” Molly set Lucifer down. “Go get dressed and then your breakfast will be ready.”

She watched as the small boy took off on his tiny chubby legs back into the bedroom, where the bottom-most drawer of Molly’s dresser had been dedicated to Lucifer’s clothes. Once he was out of sight, Molly focused on prepping breakfast for both Lucifer and herself. She cut up enough banana for the both of them into small chunks, placing half in a bowl with a handful of dry Cheerios cereal, and using the rest to top off a Greek yoghurt that would serve as her breakfast. She had hardly finished when the toddler came speeding back into the kitchen, dressed in khaki shorts and a stripped cotton sweater.

“You look lovely, Luke,” Molly praised, handing over the plastic bowl with the banana chunks and dried Cheerios. He wasted no time in shoving banana into his chubby cheeks.

“T’ank ‘ou!” came his muffled voice from around the banana.

“You’re welcome Lou,” Molly stroked her fingers through the mess of curls, trying to shape some order out of the chaos. “Don’t forget to pack your things. Uncle Phil is coming to get you for the day.”

Lucifer gave only a nod to indicate Molly was heard, already absorbed with his breakfast. Leaving him be, Molly proceeded to eat her own breakfast and pack up for work. It was a hard time for everyone, and that didn’t exclude Molly Hooper. But while Sherlock and the Watson’s saturated their hours with the whole mess of James’ indictment, Molly still had to report in at Saint Bart’s and work a full day, and Lucifer still needing watching during those hours. Despite Phillip Anderson being utterly swamped—along with the others under Lestrade’s directive—with the paperwork and investigation involved with James’ case, his lovely wife Carol Anderson was more than happy to take in Lucifer for the day. By the time Molly had finished her breakfast, dressed for work, and packed her things, the buzzer rang. Knowing it had to be Carol, Molly pressed the button to let the visitor into the apartment building and finished prepping.

“Come on Luke!” She called as she collected up paperwork from her desk. “Aunt Carol is here!”

“Otay!” Lucifer’s small voice rang from somewhere in the apartment, just before a knock came to the door.

“Coming Carol!” Molly called out, finishing sorting through the papers before rushing to the door, throwing it open to come face to face with a rather unexpected guest.

“Hey Molly,” Jay said hoarsely, looking like he had been hit by a train.

“Jay!” Molly was too surprised to say much more.

“Daddy!!” Lucifer squealed in delight as he clapped eyes on the man in the door, rushing over to him as fast as his tiny legs could take him.

With a huge grin, Jay scooped up his son and twirled him around in the air. “How’s my little man doing? Behaving himself for Aunty Molly, I hope?”

“Yup!” Lucifer beamed proudly, wrapping his little arms tightly around his father’s neck in a hug.

Jay looked apologetically to Molly, whom he knew was not expecting to see him any time soon. “May I come in..?”

“Of course!” Molly came out of her daze, making a flustered effort to be more hospitable. “You’re welcome here any time, Jay! Don’t ever think you aren’t!”

Lucifer buried his face in Jay’s shoulder, mumbling. “Am I goin’ home wit’ ‘ou, Daddy?”

“No buddy, not today,” Jay answered gently. “I’ve just got some important papers to share with your Aunt Molly. I’ll only be a minute.” Lucifer was silent, causing Jay to worry excessively. “Is that alright, little man..?”

“I s’pose so…” The disappointment in his innocent voice was enough to break Jay’s heart a million times over.

“I’m so sorry, Lucifer. I would take you with me if I could, you know that don’t you?”

Lucifer gave a small nod.

“Hey, I love you to the moon and the stars and back again. And I would never leave you forever.”

“I knows….”

Jay planted a kiss on top of Lucifer’s mess of curls. “Then don’t worry about it. Go play! Have some fun!”

He set Lucifer down and watched as he hurried off to play with is toys and his books. With his son out of sight, the smile fell from Jay’s face, leaving only somber determination.

“I have the papers,” Jay sighed, setting them on the table. “They’ll grant you partial guardianship of Lucifer, which will automatically become full guardianship should I die or go missing.”

“You got it all cleared and everything..?” Molly was surprised Jay accomplished so much in such a short time frame.

Jay nodded. “Judge signed it. I signed it. All I need now is your signature and it’s a done deal.”

Searching around for a pen, Molly penned her signature on the lines required of her, just finishing the last iteration when the buzzer went off once more.

“That’d be Carol Anderson,” she noted absently, heading to buzz her in as Jay collected up the guardianship paperwork and stashed it in his jacket.

“Thanks Molly,” Jay said sheepishly, already heading out the door. “This means more to me than you can imagine.”

“Jay wait…” Molly began, taking a second to gather her thoughts. “The whole mess with James and the murder confessions…”

“I heard,” Jay said, voice cold and without remorse.

“Thirty murders, they say he confessed to.” She gave Jay and even, unyielding glare. “I _know_ James. And as much trouble as he found himself in when he was young, thirty murders is beyond what he could have accomplished alone.”

“You want me to step up and say I had a hand in it too?!” Jay’s voice was low but bubbling over with anger. “To ruin my own life so that we’d both go to jail!? Look Molly, James and I are on fine terms now, but we were rivals back in the day. Vicious, ruthless rivals. I would have never taken the fall for him then, and I’ll never take a fall for our past now!”

“But he’s like a brother to you, Jay.”

“You don’t understand,” Jay sighed, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. “I _can’t_ take that fall. I’ve got a wife, a kid, a job, a _life_ that I’ve built from the ground up since Moriarty bit the dust. I’ve put my past behind me, set it out of my mind. It’s all but nonexistent to me. James? He refuses to let it go. I don’t know, he feels guilty or something. I’ll never understand it. He _needs_ this confession, this prosecution, in order to move on. A confession on my part would _ruin_ everything I have. Worse than that, it would set Lucifer up with a criminal dad on the record. The absolute last thing I ever want is to put barriers in his way. No… there’s nothing I can do for James. I’m sorry.”

“I understand…” Molly felt nothing but sympathy for Jay, a man trapped in a fragile world dependent on lies.

“Listen, Molly…. Lucifer, he’s happy here. I just-… I want you to know I-…. Thank you, Molly. For what you’ve done for him…”

Molly watched as he turned and hurried down the hall, a troubled young man returning to his trouble world. Shutting the door to her apartment, Molly turned to find Lucifer clutching a book to himself like a security blanket.

“Daddy…?” He wondered hopefully.

“He had to go, Lou. He’ll be back soon, I promise.”

The little boy’s face became somber, his eyes looking away, mind drifting, heart aching. Molly hated to see him so desolate, about to scoop him up in a hug when a knock came on the door. Turning back around, Molly answered it to find Carol Anderson there with a big smile on her face and her young son Alfred.

“Hello Molly!” Carol chimed. “Is little Luke ready to go?”

“Hello Carol,” Molly smiled. “He is indeed. Thank you _so_ much for doing this.”

“Any time!” Carol assured. “And Alfie loves having a little mate to play with.”

Alfred, a stern young boy of seven years old, folded his arms and made a point of looking quite unhappy. Despite his mother’s claims, it was apparent he was not a fan of having a baby around.

Molly helped Lucifer retrieve his tiny little backpack, which he had filled with toys and books to take to the Anderson’s. With the pack on his back, Lucifer hurried back to the front door to greet Carol and young Alfred, and was promptly scooped up and doted upon.

“Say goodbye to your Aunt Molly now sweetie,” Carol cooed to Lucifer.

“Bah-bye Miff Mowwy!” Lucifer beamed, his sadness over his father already forgotten.

As they walked down the hall to leave the apartment, Alfred piped up unhappily.

“Why can’t Ms. Hooper leave her baby at a daycare or with a nanny, Mum?”

“Because, Alfie dear, those things cost a lot of money, and we’re more than happy to help out as it is. Don’t you like having your little buddy Luke around?”

“No Mum!” Alfred pouted. “He’s nothing but trouble! He almost _ate_ my toy soldiers the other day! And he nearly _destroyed_ my model airplane, too!”

“He’s just a baby, Alfie,” Carol assured. “He doesn‘t know any better. When he’s older, you too will be fast friends, I’m sure of it.”

“It’s not just that Mum,” Alfred pushed. “He creeps me out! That dumb baby gets a hold of my school books and reads them all the time!”

“That’s silly, Alfie. Babies can’t read school books. I’m sure he just likes the pictures, isn’t that right Luke?”

Luke offered up his most innocent of smiles, which was apparently more than enough to satisfy Mrs. Anderson.

“See, Alfie?” Carol beamed. “Now quit being so unreasonably rude. Luke might be a baby, but he’s our guest. I expect you to treat him hospitably.”

“Yes Mummy,” Alfred sighed, though shooting a glare at Lucifer who peeked back over Carol Anderson’s shoulder.

Lucifer blinked innocently, then stuck his tongue out at young Alfred, causing the boy to become further infuriated.

“Did you see that, Mum?! He stuck his tongue out at me, that cheeky wanker!”

“Watch your language, Alfred! And don’t be ridiculous. He’s just a baby.”

But Alfred knew by Lucifer’s smug little smile that despite being so little and young, Lucifer was anything but senile. And in extreme frustration, Alfred realized he was the only one who knew.

“I’ll show them,” Alfred growled under his breath as he followed his mother out of the elevator and through the lobby. “That baby’s no idiot.”


	53. Chapter 53

James had lost track of the time he had spent in custody, but he would have given an arm and a leg to have a little bit more when they came to take him to court. Lestrade appeared in the doorway as the door creaked open, his face stern, lacking any of the familiarity James was used to seeing. There was no need for words. James knew what was happening. His eyes, bloodshot and hollow, didn’t shift away from Lestrade as another officer put handcuffs on his wrists and shoved him towards the door. They walked through Scotland Yard in a single file, Lestrade leading, James next with head bowed and hands clasped together, and the officer trapping James from behind. A million thoughts were rushing through James’ sleep-deprived head, a thousand plans of escape taking shape, a hundred safe-houses pinpointed, a dozen new identities he could take, but only one course of action stuck firmly: clear his name for Kate Eloise.

Lestrade led out the doors of the Scotland Yard offices, where a squadron of police cars sat waiting at the curb to escort James to court. The light of day was enough to blind James, who had only experienced daylight in the small quantity coming through his cell window for who-knows-how-long, but despite his temporary blindness, he was still aware of someone approaching fast.

“Hand him over Lestrade,” Sherlock demanded coldly.

“Sherlock, what the hell do you think you’re doing!?”

“As his lawyer, I must _demand_ that you hand him over Detective Inspector.”

“I’m afraid that’s not how this works, Sherlock,” Lestrade was apologetic but firm on the subject. “We escort him to the arraignment at court via police vehicles only.”

Sherlock pasted a smile on his furious face. “Then I’ll be riding with you, Garret.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes in extraordinary exasperation, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he helped James into the back of a cop car, climbed into the driver’s seat, and allowed Sherlock to sit beside him in the passenger’s seat. Despite the bars separating James from the two up front, he still felt utterly comforted by Sherlock’s mere presence. Having him around was like a calming cold slaking the fires of James’ overworked mind. Deep down inside, James _knew_ nothing could go horribly wrong with Sherlock around to help out. Things could still go quite wrong, but not _horribly_ so.

It wasn’t the first time James had driven through the streets of London and cherished every moment of the ride, but it had certainly been a while. Every building, every vehicle, every pedestrian every sign on every corner: they all meant so much more to him knowing it could be the last he saw of it all. He thought about Kate Eloise, and immediately a pit took form in his stomach. He wondered if she was crying back at the Watson’s house. He wondered if she had given up their apartment. He wondered if she had moved on altogether. The thought was too much to bear, and luckily for James Sherlock cut into such disheartening thoughts.

“James,” he said quietly. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” James answered hoarsely, having not used his voice in who-knows-how-long.

“So you confessed to the murders,” Sherlock began tentatively.

“I did.” James came back apologetically.

“What’s your plea then?”

“Guilty but Insane.”

“Smart,” Sherlock nodded. “But let’s shoot for Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity. Start out on top, and let them knock us down from there.”

“But-…”

“Just listen to me James. If you plead Guilty, even Guilty but Mentally Ill, you’ll go to jail. Your record may be marred. You may even be found to have been sane at the time of the murders and sentenced to life without parole. At least with Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity you have a chance of walking away from this whole ordeal without jail-time.”

James fell silent, acknowledging the logic in Sherlock’s suggestion, realizing it was indeed a wiser course of action. But deep down inside, a small voice argued that it was cheating. After all, he _was_ guilty, wasn’t he?

“James, you have to trust me,” Sherlock pleaded as if reading James’ thoughts. “Can you do that for me? And for Kate?”

 James’ nod was close to an automatic response. For Kate, he’d sell his soul and travel to Hell and back again. “Alright… I’m trusting you on this one, mista Sherlock…”

“I won’t let you down, Jamie,” came Sherlock’s tense and unsteady voice. “Not this time.”

____________________________

The courthouse was awfully quiet at the early hour of the morning James and his police escort made their arrival. It was peaceful, even to James whose future hung in the balance. There wasn’t a sound aside from the shuffle and scuffing of feet down the linoleum hallways. James walked as best he could for his exhaustion, eyes cast down, not daring to look up, knowing that beside them marched Moriarty, young, groomed, dead-eyed, at ease, as he had walked over two decades ago. Now, it was James’ turn to stand trial for his crimes, with the figment of his dastardly father alongside him.

James was led into a courtroom, marched up to the defendant’s table, made to sit down. Sherlock took the seat beside him, not looking to James for fear of showing the dark worry in his eyes. Of all the police that had followed James in, only Lestrade remained in the empty audience. James’ eyes shifted to a woman he didn’t recognize that sat at the prosecutor’s table, shuffling through files James _did_ recognized. They were his old case files, details on every victim that had fallen prey to one of the Moriarty boys, victims James held himself accountable for killing. A wave of nausea swept over him, his knees felt weak, his shirt collar too tight, his throat too strangled to breathe, his head heavy with panic. A hand reached up and gave his already messy hair a reassuring ruffle.

“It’s alright, James,” Sherlock murmured, keeping their conversation private. “Just look at the table. Don’t worry about anything else.”

Taking his advice, James let his eyes bore into the table, studying every last inch, every grain, every anomaly. With his mind occupied, a sense of ease returned to James.

The judge entered from his private room behind the judge’s bench, taking a seat in his throne of justice and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Good morning all,” the judge nodded, clearing his throat as he settled in to the rhythm of his work. “We are here today to discuss the matter of the murders of thirty innocent people, committed over ten years ago, the investigations into which have long since gone cold.”

He cleared his throat once more, fixing James with a stare that heavily favored his left eye. “James Moriarty Junior, is it?”

James nodded, then became distinctly aware of the woman typing up every word and gesture that happened in the courtroom, feeling the overpowering need to be verbal. “Yes, your honor.”

 “It is my understanding that you confessed to these thirty murders; is that correct?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“Tell me James, just out of curiosity: thirty murders. All of which were no longer under active investigation. In my book, it seemed you had gotten away with it all. Why confess?”

James took a deep breath, shakily rising to his feet. “If I’m being honest with you, sir, it’s because I wish to leave my past behind. To start anew.”

“And why now? Why start fresh now?”

“My girlfriend, your honor,” James smiled despite himself. “Well, she’s my fiancé now, but-….I’m doing it for her. I don’t want the man she marries to be the killer who got away. And I don’t want that to be me.”

“But that _is_ who you are, James,” the judge replied sharply. “A confession doesn’t change the fact that your murdered over thirty people.”

“’ _A confession has to be part of your new life,_ ’” James quoted as he lowered his eyes. “Lugwig Wittgenstein. Do give him credit in the record.”

“I should hope you have more than poetry backing you if you plan to make a case out of this, Mr. Moriarty,” the judge growled. “Now enough chatter. Let’s get on with it.”

Once clearing his throat for the umpteenth time, the judge continued.

“James Moriarty Junior, you are being charged today with thirty separate accounts of first degree murder, to which you have confessed and presented evidence to persecute yourself. How do you plead?”

“Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity.”

The judge let out an audible, annoyed sigh. “Of course you do.”

He continued on by stating James’ rights, informing him that if he could not afford a lawyer one would be assigned to him, that fact that James would remain in custody until the time of his next hearing.

“Would you like a trial by your peers, Mr. Moriarty?”

“No, your honor,” James mumbled.

“No? How surprising.” The venom in the judge’s voice was beginning to take its toll on James’ spirit. “We’ll have your jury-less trail arranged, then. Court adjourned.”

With the sharp tap of the gable on the bench and its subsequent echoes, James’ first step to a new life had been made. Unfortunately for him, it was a wobbly, unsure step indeed.

____________________________

“I need you to tell me everything.”

James sat at a table with Sherlock across from him, the two of them alone in the dingy, dim interrogation room. James was tired beyond belief, put on edge by his dulled senses that exaggerated most everything to make up for their miniscule perception. His eyes rolled over to stare into the reflective one-way glass, seeing only himself glaring back with dark-circled eyes, but knowing very well someone lurked behind it.

“James, please,” Sherlock pressed. “We need to stake a case here. You’ve got to tell me what happened all that time you spent with Moriarty.”

“You’re not going to be happy when you find out,” James warned in a low, menacing voice, eyeing the microphone on the table with disdain.

“James….”

“It all started when I was three,” James sighed tediously. “Of course you _knew_ that already, mista Sherlock. You were there, after all.”

Sherlock nodded. James continued, leaning back in his chair.

“It was all a test, to see if I _could_ be pushed over the edge, to see if I had inherited the tendency towards insanity. And he found I could be. Enough prodding, enough pain, enough confusion and I was very much willing to kill anyone, including my closest and only friend at the time. That, of course, being you, Sherlock.

“He couldn’t just take me away then. No, I was too little to be of use. I would be nothing but a commodity for him, a burden, until I was old enough to be of service. And so he let me go. Let me stay with my mother all isolated, let my memories darken and my conscious squirm with confusion. But then I turned six. And I returned to London and to you, Sherlock. Moriarty knew, of course. He sent Ms. Adler in to collect me up and deliver me to him. And she did. And I went away with Moriarty, who pushed me to remember all the horrifying details of our first encounter, and over time convinced me of my unavoidable insanity.

“He had me thinking I was bringing balance to the world. That I was eliminating the dull and weak and unappreciative to make room for geniuses like us to thrive and find acceptance and reverence. I managed a few hours of sleep telling myself that what I was doing was commendable, that it was helping shape a brighter future for people like me, for overlooked intelligences. But I confess: as the practice continued, the motions became automatic, the act weighed less and less on my mind, the need for a cause eliminated. I was killing because I was told to kill, and because it had become so _easy_ for me. And then the killings became more complicated to accomplish, started requiring finesse. It all became a game, a puzzle, something to occupy my clever mind.

“And it wasn’t just a game to me. It was a competition. As you know, Sherlock, Jay was also there under Moriarty’s thumb. Pulled back into the game by his need for direction and way the world chewed him up and spit him out when he was on his own. Jay was always very competitive, very egotistical, and I found myself with a complex as well, considering myself the greatest mind alive to date. Moriarty preyed on our dislike for one another and fed it into a hate, and then an intense rivalry. It was always _who could kill the fastest_ and _whose murder case went cold the soonest_ and _who has the best technique_. Most normal boys would quarrel over their skills in football or who could ride their bikes without hands. My brother and I _killed_ to show one another up. And when we weren’t given assignments, we turned to violence against one another.”

James shed his battered shirt, revealing his toned chest laced with scars of very degrees. He ran his hand over one that cut deep into the flesh below his collarbone.

“One time, Jay cut into my chest with his big old knife while I lay sleeping. I woke up to find myself tied to my bed and my chest cut wide open. I managed to fight him off and get myself free. When I asked him sometime later why he had done it, he told me he wanted to see what the heart of a coward looked like while it was still beating. He said he’d only seen the ones of people who he’d already killed.”

“Is he still like that?” Sherlock voice was barely audible.

James shook his head, slipping the shirt back on. “Jay wised up, just like any kid that becomes a man. We were rivals as kids, playing into Moriarty’s hand, but once his hold on us became restrictive, bothersome, we put our past behind us, united against Moriarty. He still kills, I’m sure of it; Jay always got a kick out of murdering others. Made him feel powerful, important. Me? Like I said. It was a distraction. When other distractions entered my life, I had no desire to continue killing. In fact, it haunts me that it was ever a part of my life.”

“Your assignments from Moriarty. The ones I knew about, they were complex. Required months of undercover work to even get the opportunity for a window to kill the target. It sounds like you were just simple assassins.”

“We were, when we were little,” James admitted. “But then things got complicated. Moriarty’s enemies, they began to identify us. We couldn’t take on a target without being recognized and often attacked. Moriarty had to re-strategize. We took a break for a little while. Then he brought us back in, no longer as his assassins, but as his representatives. We spread out through his empire of networks, extended the hand of Moriarty beyond where Moriarty alone could reach. We became his eyes and ears, and when necessary, his fist and gun. He used our growing reputation to his advantage. Wherever we went, whenever we entered a room, you’d get whispers of ‘It’s one of those Moriarty boys.’ We grew cocky, overconfident. We plotted to use our connections and our close loyalties to take over Moriarty’s empire from the inside. You remember how that ended.”

“You were shot in Denmark, point blank, by Moriarty. He would have killed you if I hadn’t been there to save your life.”

James nodded, lifting his shirt once more to reveal a jagged, bright pink scar across his midriff. “It’s true. I‘m still around because of you, mista Sherlock. And I can’t thank you enough for it.”

“And what then?”

“Eventually he pulled us back into the field once more. He couldn’t replace us. We were his legacy, after all. His new assignments were something of a middle-ground between our assassinations as kids and our diplomatic babysitting as teens. It was undercover work. Sometimes we went in as Moriarty’s representatives, or as his rebel heirs looking to overthrow him. Most of the time we went in under fake identities. The purpose was always to get close to a person or organization and then ensure their downfall. The work suited us well, but it caused us to be away from our lives for months, even years at a time. And as we grew into our adult years, we no longer wished to be caught up in Moriarty’s schemes as much as we wished to be free to move on. Moriarty made it clear he wasn’t going to let us walk away without consequences. So we got together. Suited up. Took him down.”

“You killed him.”

“We killed him. His empire crumbled without him to keep it all together, like the body of a snake whose head has been severed. There was no one to take his place; that was supposed to be _us_ , after all.”

Sherlock fell silent, something clearly troubling him.

“What?” James inquired.

“You sure he’s dead?”

“Of course I’m sure!” James shot back more defensively then he would have liked. “Why?”

“No reason,” Sherlock responded, just as defensively as James.

The two of them fell silent. After a minute, Sherlock flicked the switch on the microphone, ending their conversation.

“What now?” James inquired, his exhaustion pushing him from irritability to fatigue.

“Now,” Sherlock said as he stood and smoothed out his suit jacket. “You get tested.”

“Tested?” James was confused, not understanding, except for a very small part of him that feared the truth deeply.

“To see if your insane,” Sherlock smiled. “By the law’s standards, that is. You and I both know you fell off your rocker before your feet could even reach the ground.”

“But what if I’m not?” James posed defensively, standing to face Sherlock at eye level, grey eyes intensely stormy.

“Don’t worry,” Sherlock assured, heading for the door. “You leave the rest to me.”

James watched as he left, the door shutting behind him. A faint shadow moved behind the one way glass, or perhaps it was only a figment of James’ imagination, feeding veraciously off of his exhaustion. The door clicked back open, a man with thinning hair, round glasses, and a turtle-like face entering.

“Hello, Mr. Moriarty,” he said in a voice that was breathy and trembling, hands fidgeting incessantly with his glasses. “I’m Doctor Berk. I’ll be determining your level of sanity today. Is that alright?”

“Quite, Doctor,” James answered, fighting the urge to strangle this man who clearly mistook James as some sort of helpless nut-job. “And I can assure you, my insanity is not the kind that you should be wary of.” He offered up a friendly smile. “I’m not going to hurt you or anything like that.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Moriarty,” Doctor Berk responded as he set his small briefcase on the table in front of James, looking at him with hint of a smug smile. “That’s for me to decide.”


	54. Chapter 54

The sun rose lazily, glistening like a million diamonds on the waters blanketing the city of Venice. Jay sat in a small but elegant apartment, one of many clustered shoulder to shoulder in the banks of the water. The view was harder to see through the lens of a black eye, but Jay managed to appreciate its full beauty as he let the cup of tea in his hands puff out steam and cool off. He shifted ever so slightly, causing himself immediate pain as his fresh wounds—cuts, bruises, breakages—screamed in protest to any movement. A grimace came to his face, eyes shifting from the window to the doorway as Irene entered in a silk nightgown, wrapped in a plush cotton robe. Following behind her came Kate, Irene’s longtime lover, dressed in a more modest but similar fashion.

“Morning ladies,” Jay greeted as they sat themselves down on one of the couches in the parlor, beside Jay in his armchair.

“Morning Danny,” Irene chimed with a smile. “I _can_ call you that now, can’t I? With old Jim dead and all?”

Jay rolled his eyes a bit. “You could call me Fluffy Cheesecake and I wouldn’t care, Mum.”

“Someone’s in a bad mood,” Kate mused almost teasingly.

“Really? What tipped you off?” Jay widened his eyes sarcastically. “Was it my tone, or did the slew of injuries hint more strongly?”

“Oh don’t be so sour, dear,” Irene chided. “Your Aunty Kate and I have seen you in much worse shape and lot cheerier still.”

“It’s not the wounds that are fouling up my mood, Mother.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Daniel,” Irene’s voice had turned mildly sympathetic while still being stern. “It was obvious that woman was a gold-digger and a slut. Kate and I saw the divorce coming from a mile away.”

“What, is she pushing custody charges or something?” Kate wondered.

“No, thank goodness,” Jay heaved a tired sigh. “She wants nothing to do with Lucifer. She did, however, manage to snag half of my wealth on her way out the door.”

“That’s all she ever wanted of you, sweetie,” Kate’s voice was quiet with sympathy.

“I know, Aunty Kate,” Jay looked away. “I guess I’ve always sort of known her intentions. But-…. I wanted to change her…. I thought she loved me enough to change….”

“That’s not the way love works, Danny,” Irene sighed. “You marry a person because you love them how they are. Not because they could become something you could love.”

“Then why did she marry me..?”

“Because you were rich. And she knew she could push you to become more rich, and then take the money and run.”

“But Lucifer-…”

“Was an accident. A happy, wonderful accident, mind you, but not what Roza had in mind. Why else could a mother despise such a beautiful, cheery baby?”

“Speaking of which, how is our little grandson?”

“Doing well,” Jay sipped his tea. “He’s really happy with Molly Hooper. The whole community there loves him and cares for him. It’s where he belongs.”

“It sounds to me like you plan on leaving him there indefinitely.” Kate mused as she prepared tea for herself and Irene.

Jay didn’t answer, just fixed his eyes on his milky tea and took another long sip.

“Daniel!” Irene scolded in surprise. “You can’t abandon Lucifer!”

“I’m not abandoning him!” Jay countered. “I just can’t be with him all the time. It’s too dangerous, with the life I lead…”

Irene became quite sad, lowering her voice. “That’s what Sherlock said about _you_ , dear…”

Jay became visibly furious. “I’m not Sherlock Homes!! Unlike him, I’ll _be there_ if and when Luke needs me! I’ll be watching over him constantly, and I’ll always be around when he needs his father. And that’s far more than Sherlock could say he did for me!”

“Lucifer doesn’t need you to be the hero that swoops in and saves the day, Danny,” Irene said earnestly. “He just needs you to be his _dad_ …”

Jay fell silent, as did Irene and Kate. The three of them continued the silence as they all drank their tea and watched the sun on the water. By the creases in Jay’s brow, it was obvious he was thinking, or more accurately _rethinking_. Irene’s word had struck home with him. Had he not grown up lacking a father figure? Had he not looked up at the stars late at night, wandering down alleys, wondering with an open heart if his father could be looking up at the same stars, that _something_ might finally connect them? Had he not jumped through hoops and risked life and limb to have Moriarty so much as tell him _‘Good job,’_ just so he could call the man his father? Had he not grown bitter off of his questions he could pose to no one, grown cold from the lack of _‘I love you, son_ ’s, turned reckless without the guidance of a father’s ageless wisdom? The last thing Jay wanted was for Lucifer to turn out as broken and dysfunctional as himself.

“So Danny, any news on the trial of James Moriarty Junior?” Irene finally cut in.

Jay shrugged, setting down his empty cup and saucer. “It’s been over a month since the arraignment took place. From what I’ve gathered, they’re conducting extensive tests into the sanity of our dear James. I can only guess it’s taking this long because they’re convinced he’s crazy, and they’re trying to determine to what extent. Little do they know,” Jay couldn’t help but laugh a little. “they’re going to need a full excavation team to find out everything in the time frame.”

“So he’s really insane then?” Kate asked.

“Oh definitely. Moriarty always knew. He always preyed on that fact, used it as a leash to hold him back or let him at his targets.”

“Do you think he’ll get off then? For all the murders he confessed to?”

“Get off? It’s doubtful. The court’s not gonna let him walk for thirty murders. But he may have a chance at a reduced sentence, _if_ Sherlock can conjure up some miracles.”

“What do you mean?”

“The star witness. The man who saw all the murders take place. The only man who can take the rap for James other than myself.”

“Moriarty?” Irene laughed. “But he’s dead.”

“That’s debatable, actually…”

“You’re kidding.” Kate couldn’t take Jay seriously.

“We’ll see, won’t we?”

“Daniel, if you won’t tell me if Jim is alive, _I swear to God-…!!_ ”

“Relax, Mum,” Jay put up his hands in defense. “I’m not saying he is. I’m just saying Sherlock suspects so.”

“Well that’s just as good as you being certain,” Irene sunk back into the couch, looking a little haunted.

Jay got up, walking over and planting a gentle kiss on his Mother’s head.

“Don’t worry, Mum,” he murmured. “He won’t so much as think about you before a dig a knife into his spine.”

“ _Ugh_ , you’re too kind,” Irene couldn’t help but shutter at Jay’s calm promise of violence.

“Now if it’s all the same to you lovely ladies, I’ll be on my way.”

“Don’t you want us to help patch you up first?” Kate asked.

“What for?” Jay laughed as he exited the parlor. “I was planning to just walk it all off.”

“Danny, when are you appearing in court?” Irene called after him.

“Five days, Mum!” Jay called back, voice growing distant as he got to the front door. “Hope to see you there!”

“I’ll see that bitch burned before she takes anymore from my Fluffy Cheesecake!”

Though far off as he was in the house, Irene and Kate could still hear his annoyed groan from the parlor, causing a bout of giggles to come over the two aging ladies.


	55. Chapter 55

“Guilty!!”

The gable fell accusingly onto the desk, the sharp rap of the collision causing James to flinch.

“Life imprisonment!” The judge boomed. “No chance of parole! You will _rot_ , sir!”

The gable fell once more, and as it hit the table James found himself blinking once and opening his eyes to the prison around him. The people move past his cell as if put into fast-forward. James felt time dashing away from him, pulling the youth from his body and leaving him tired and stiff.

He blinked again.

Kate was standing there, waiting in her wedding dress, flowers held in her hands. She, too, was set in fast-forward, and James watched as the flowers died in her hands, her face wrinkled with sadness and age, her dress became faded and worn, her hair turned grey, her face further wrinkled, her skin melted away to leave nothing more than a skeleton in the shreds of what once was a wedding dress. She waited, but for what? James found himself screaming at her, telling her to leave him, to live her life, but it was too late. Her skeleton crumbled. Her dust was swept off by an ignorant breeze.

James’ scream grew loud in his ears, deafening, causing him to shut his eyes. And then it disappeared altogether. He opened his eyes. Padded walls. Padded floor. Padded ceiling. Straight jacket strangling him to death. Years pass as seconds. James found himself growing further and further insane, screaming, writhing, crying, making suicide attempt after suicide attempt...

And he woke in a cold sweat. James gasped awake, heart pounding up into his throat, lungs burning to catch his breath. Looking around, James recognized the cell, the light pouring through the barred window. Realizing his reality, James slumped back down onto his bed, defeated in all aspects of the word. His eyes were bloodshot from the interrogation lights, his mind was mush from the repeated questions, his clothes had become dirty and tattered, ripped in places that James didn’t recall ripping. His hair sat wild atop his head, tangled and ruffled from nights of tossing and turning and days of hands pulling at it in frustration. James shut his eyes, tried not to wonder when his trial would be, and made an attempt to catch a few more hours of sleep, peaceful or otherwise.

Instead, the sound of footsteps and jingling keys snapped James’ eyes right back open. How many times had he heard the same two sounds, only to have them pass by and continue down the hall? And still James insisted on waiting, listening, hoping for someone to open the door, talk to him, give him some news. He listened as the sounds drew closer, nearer, right outside the door, and then a pause. The keys jingled further. The bolt in the door clicked out of place. The hinges screeched open. James sat up, eyeing Lestrade curiously, waiting to hear the reason for his visit. Instead, Lestrade looked to someone on his left and gave them a nod. They shuffled quietly, cautiously into the doorway. James felt his heart skip a beat, right before he was embraced by two familiar arms, enveloped in the unforgettable scent of her hair.

“James!” Kate sobbed in relief, refusing to let him go.

No words could find their way to James’ mouth, but there was no need. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close, clutching tightly to his chest the one thing in the world he feared he’d lose.

“I can’t give you long,” Lestrade said after a minute, shifting his footing in the doorway. “I shouldn’t even be allowing you in.”

“Thank you, Greg,” Kate looked back to the Detective Inspector with eyes spilling over with tears and gratitude. “I only need a minute.”

She turned back to James, her eyes darting across every last feature to assure herself he was unharmed. James offered up a weak smile, not knowing the extent to how absolutely awful he looked.

“Hey Kate,” he said hoarsely. “How’ve you been?”

“I had no idea, James!” Kate babbled through tears. “Sherlock-… the doctors-…. You could have told me, I could have done _something_ to help…!”

James pulled her into his shoulder for another hug. “Don’t be ridiculous. You did absolutely everything. I wouldn’t be alive today if it weren’t for you. You’re my rock, Kate Eloise Watson. You’re my only light in this world of darkness.”

“Schizophrenia?! Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?! James, those are problems that need _treating_! You should have said something! Among other things!”

James shrugged as Kate Eloise pulled away. “I didn’t know what to call it. Hell, I’m so used to it by now, I hardly remembered it was even out of the ordinary for such things to be happening to me…”

One look at the disheveled, disheartened, downtrodden James and Kate began crying all over again, pulling him back into a tight and desperate hug. All those nights she found him drinking excessively, all those mornings when she found him curled up around a cup of coffee looking haunted,  all those glances he made as if seeing a ghost; looking as awful as James did now, trapped in his cell, worn down by question after question, sleepless night after sleepless night, it wasn’t hard for Kate to realize that something was very wrong with the man she loved the most. It broke her heart thinking she realized it far too late.

“So…” James voice gathered some of its familiar, earnest tone as it warmed up to speaking. “How’s London without me? As dull as I imagine it is?”

Kate couldn’t help but laugh just a bit, sniffling. “It’s alright. They’ve been ransacking the apartment, Scotland Yard and the lot…”

“Oh that’s fine,” James said dismissively with a wrinkle of his nose. “We’ve outgrown that dingy old place. Why don’t you go out, buy us a nice house just outside of town! One with a yard and some flowers and a doormat that says _Welcome Home_.”

“I won’t do that without you, Jamie,” Kate protested softly.

“Why not? That’s all I’ll be looking for anyways: grassy yard, pretty little baby’s breath flowers, that charming doormat, and the world’s most beautiful and horrendously foul-mouthed woman hanging about inside.”

“Dickhead,” Kate growled as she gave his shoulder a teasing punch, only resulting in James smiling much brighter.

“So, what else is going on in the world of the un-accused?”

“Valentin’s got a boyfriend, don’t know if you knew.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. His name’s Charlie. Nice fellow; bit of a prick, if you ask me, but he makes Tin happy. Apparently they both work for Mycroft now. Government errands. Undercover stuff. Nothing much.”

“Huh,” James mused. “Guess it’s my job as big brother to draw the line for this Charlie character, isn’t it?”

“I’ve got you covered there, sweetie,” Kate smiled. “I’ve already given him hell. Hasn’t been an easy month…”

“Guess that’s my fault, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, sort of is,” Kate shrugged, glancing back to see Lestrade tapping at his watch, causing a frown to come over her cheery face. “Listen James, the trial’s tomorrow. That’s what Sherlock said. He wanted me to let you know.”

“Oh good, at least they haven’t forgotten me,” James chuckled, giving Kate one last longing hug. “Go get that house. Decorate it up for me. I haven’t the eye for that sort of thing.”

Kate nodded, hands clutching to the back of James’ shirt, balling it up in her fists, face buried in his shoulder.

“Give Lucifer all the candy he wants. Tell him it’s from his Uncle Jamie.”

She nodded again, pulling away as Lestrade entered the cell to escort her away.

“Give your mum and dad my love!” James declared dramatically, doing all he could to keep Kate Eloise smiling.

“I will, Jamie,” Kate giggled, following Lestrade out the door.

“Oh! And one last thing!” James exclaimed, scrambling to his feet.

“What?” Kate turned back, concern written all over her face.

James couldn’t help but let slip a wry smile. “Keep my car out of the weather. I’d hate for her to rust.”

“God James!” Kate rolled her eyes, turning to leave once more.

“I’m serious!” James called in desperation. “Greg, tell her it’s a serious matter! That Impala’s a classic!”

“No James, _this_ is classic!” Kate snorted in annoyance. “You should’ve proposed to that damn car!”

James pressed his face into the bars on the door, smiling sheepishly.

“I love you,” he said, drawing out the _ou_ childishly.

“See you later, dick-for-brains.” Kate teased.

As soon as Kate Eloise and Lestrade were down the hall and the door to the cells clicked shut behind them, James reached into his pocket and pulled out something Kate had managed to slip there unseen. He sat down on his bed and stared at the trinket, recognizing it immediately. It was a heart-shaped locket, _Kate’s_ heart-shaped locket, the one James had given to her for Christmas what seemed like a whole lifetime ago. Gently, he pried open the locket to see what was inside. On one half of the heart, a picture of Kate and himself from Kate’s homecoming, the both of them so young and goofy; the other half, a picture Kate had taken on a whim one morning as she joined a much-exhausted James for coffee, her smiling face scrunched up against the dazed face of zombie-like James. The two moments were both immeasurably precious to James, and clearly to Kate Eloise as well. Not caring how he’d look, James slipped the necklace on and let it hang down behind his shirt. He wanted Kate’s heart to be close to his, no matter what happened in court.

____________________________

It was hard to stay awake in the courtroom, let alone pay attention. James sat in the witness chair, hair brushed and styled, a crisp new suit a little loose after the weight he had lost, eyes still dark and tired despite the attempt to cover it up with makeup. His eyes flickered to follow the movements of the prosecution’s lawyer as she prowled ruthlessly in front of the witness stand. It was plain as day to James that she was professional, she was ruthless, and she wouldn’t bat an eye to see him locked away for good.

“Do you deny that you killed these people, Mr. Moriarty?”

“No.”

“Do you deny the fact that makes you a murderer?”

“No.”

“And yet you plead not guilty.”

“By reasons of insanity.”

She paused to fix him with a piercing stare, as if she were ripping him open and searching for the truth inside. “Tell me, do you believe yourself sane, Mr. Moriarty?”

James didn’t bat an eye. “No.”

“Tell me, has your presumable lack of sanity inhibited you from leading a normal life as a citizen of England?”

James faltered. “No…”

“So lacking sanity hasn’t affected you adversely?”

“Objection! Leading the witness!” Sherlock snapped.

“Overruled!” The judge snapped back irritably. It was, after all, the twenty-third objection Sherlock had made in the thirteen minutes the trial had been running, and the judge grew tired of Sherlock’s excessive knowledge on the school of law.

“The question stands, Mr. Moriarty.” There was a hint of a smirk hidden behind all the professionalism on the lawyer’s stern face.

“Well recently I-…”

“A yes or no will suffice, Mr. Moriarty.”

“N-No…”

“So you plead not guilty by reasons of insanity and yet admit your lack of sanity doesn’t affect you adversely in any way.” She shook her head as if dealing with an illogical child. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

“Very well. Thank you, Mr. Moriarty. You may return to the court.”

James sulked from his stand and returned to his seat beside Sherlock, barely able to cover the distance before his knees buckled, his clammy hands steadying himself on the table. He didn’t dare look at Sherlock, fearing the look of distress James was certain would be in his eyes.

“You may call your second witness to the stand, Mr. Homes,” the judge informed with a sigh as he took of his glasses and polished them on cloth.

Sherlock stood, his chair scraping back across the floor. “I’d like to call Doctor Berk to the stand.”

Slowly, the meek-looking psychologist rose from his seat in the empty audience and came forward to the bench, where he took his oath and climbed into the witness stand. Sherlock paced in front of the man, hashing out his questions with rehearsed quickness. 

“Please state your name and occupation for the record.”

“My name is Michael Berk. I am a practicing psychologist with my Masters in the subject.”

“Do your credentials qualify you to assess the mental state of James Timothy Allen Moriarty Junior?”

“They do.”

“Have you assessed the mental state of said man?”

“I have.”

“Over what period of time?”

“Six weeks.”

“Is six weeks ample time to determine the mental state of James Moriarty Junior?”

“More than ample, though there was quite a lot to assess.” Berk allowed himself a nasally chuckle.

“Would you do us the honors of reading your findings, registered as Evidence A?”

“Most certainly.” He adjusted his glasses on his turtle-like face, accepting the report from the judge who held all the evidence for his examining, clearing his throat excessively before reading the report aloud.

“James Moriarty Junior is ailed by several mental disorders, including a severe case of early-onset schizophrenia, long-tern Post traumatic Stress Disorder, a slew of minor sleeping and anxiety disorders, among others…”

James stopped listening, suddenly finding himself in a meadow, the sun setting and blinding him. A silhouetted figure stood beckoning to him from a short distance, and instinctively James knew it was Kate. His feet moved as if submerged in water—slow and strenuous—as he made his way to her, trying to shield his eyes.

“… stressful situations cause him lapse into a state of hallucination, often dislocating him from reality and planting him in a fantasy parallel to reality. In situations of the greatest stress, these fantasies are thought to push James Moriarty Junior to take action in the fantasies that transcends over into reality…”

She was getting too far away, and the sun was sinking lower, more blinding, the meadow more dark. James tried to cry out, tell Kate to wait up, but nothing came out of his mouth. The harder he tried to move, the slower he went.

“… sees persons from reality in these parallel fantasies, whom James Moriarty Junior claims provide commentary and suggestions that the true-to-life persons would provide. Note that these figments can be attributed to Mr. Moriarty’s severe schizophrenia…”

As the sun dipped below the horizon and out of sight, the entire meadow was blanketed in shadow, and everything became unbearably cold. James could no longer see Kate. His hands and face were quickly going numb, burning with frostbite, as he tried to call out once more. Succumbing to the extreme cold, James found himself blacking out.

And awakening back in reality. Doctor Berk was shuffling his report and Sherlock nodded accordingly.

“Thank you, Doctor. That should be enough.” Berk returned the report to the judge and Sherlock continued with renewed vigor. “But tell me, Doctor Berk, is your analysis sufficient in proving James Moriarty Junior to have been mentally impaired at the time the thirty murders were committed?”

“No, it’s not,” Berk replied meekly, a glint in his eyes hinting at his desire to have studied James the entire span of his twisted upside-down life. James’ nose twitched in a snarl of disapproval.

“Correct,” Sherlock nodded, hands steepled beneath his chin. “Which is why I would like to ask for the approval of Your Honor of dismissing Doctor Berk and calling my star witness to the stand.”

The judge looked to the prosecution’s lawyer for any objection to the movement, and in finding none, nodded to Sherlock.

“Proceed.”

As Berk exited the witness stand and returned to his seat, Sherlock paused dramatically until he could feel the anticipation humming in the dusty air of the courtroom.

“Your Honor, I’d like to call James Moriarty _Senior_ to the stand.”

As if on cue, the doors to the courtroom opened, causing everyone’s attention to turn towards the back. Down the aisle to the judge’s bench came Jim Moriarty—wheeled along by a formally-clad Moran. Jim’s face was totally blank, eyes dead, as James was used to seeing him, but everything else just seemed wrong. James couldn’t believe _this_ was his infamous father, with Jim’s hair nearly all silver and cut back almost too short, face aged and permanently tired, suit ill-fitting on his person that had grown thin from poor appetite and lack of exercise. Jim’s eyes slowly scanned the people attending as he drew nearer to the bench, smiling thinly at the sight of Sherlock—who in turn frowned ever so slightly—and eyes sticking to the sight of James, smile disappearing.

“You look awful,” he commented dryly as Moran paused him beside James.

“So do you,” James answered evenly, though unable to keep his surprise from conveying.

And with that, Jim Moriarty moved on, taking his oath and getting wheeled up to the witness stand, sitting up straight and easily, maintaining his menacing grace even with his paralysis.

“James Moriarty Senior?” The judge exclaimed incredulously. “You’re the man on trail’s father?”

“That would be me,” Jim answered with a patronizing look. “And I’d prefer you call me Jim, if it’s not too much trouble.”

The judge bristled, eyeing up Moran who stood off to the side. “And who is this man!? And accomplice of yours?”

“Moran’s my caretaker,” Jim answered impatiently. “Wheels me around, looks after my wellbeing, that sort of thing.”

“May I proceed, Your Honor?” Sherlock cut in.

The judge was clearly indignant, but he gave a nod anyways.

“Let me ask you Jim-… can I call you Jim? Is that alright?” Sherlock asked with mock consideration.

Moriarty let slip an innocent smile. “Oh I would love nothing more.”

“Can you attest to the fact that you are the biological father to James Moriarty Junior, who sits here in court with us today?”

Moriarty nodded. “I can. I raised him too.” His eyes flickered to Sherlock to see if his last comment got a rise out of him. Sherlock kept himself impassive and professional.

“Could you describe to us your relationship with James Moriarty Junior, as it was...” Sherlock did a quick calculation in his head. “Sixteen years ago. James Moriarty Junior would have been six years old at the time.”

Moriarty shook his head in wonder. “Wow. Seems like it was just yesterday, doesn’t it? Funny how time flies by. Your kids go from tugging at your sleeve to shooting you-”

“The question, Jim,” Sherlock cut in quickly. “If you could answer it, that would be lovely.”

“Right, right,” Jim nodded slowly, shutting his eyes briefly as he thought back. “Sixteen years ago… As I recall, James was assassinating people for me. Is that what this case is about? The people he dispatched of?”

“Yes, Jim. Now please, if you could describe your _relationship_ …” Sherlock was growing anxious the longer Moriarty went off track.

“Of course, Sherlock,” He smiled once more, this time coldly, without a hint of his playful deception. “I pushed James around. I wanted him to do my work for me, but no regular old boring six-year-old is going to murder, even for his daddy. But it didn’t take much. A little baiting. A couple life or death scenarios. He soon got the hang of the whole killing thing. After all, he was designed for it.”

“I’m sorry,” The judge intercepted, stunned. “Designed?”

Moriarty looked to him as if it were obvious. “Yes, designed. James Moriarty Junior, as you continue to refer to him as, was the product of an undocumented experiment to create my perfect successor. Not a clone of myself, but a Me 2.0, if you will. A cold, steady psychopath like his dad.” Jim shrugged to himself. “Didn’t work out, but it wasn’t a total failure either. James turned out to be an excellent heir, even if we didn’t manage to free him of the burden of a conscious.”

“You’re telling me James Moriarty Junior, _this man here_ , is some sort of… genetic experiment to create a psychopathic killer?”

“Yes.”

“But he’s not,” Sherlock cut in hastily. “He’s not a psychopathic killer.”

“No, he’s not,” Moriarty agreed with a shake of the head.

“The goal was to create a psychopath capable of guiltless killing, but as James Moriarty Senior has kindly pointed out for us, the goal was not met. James Moriarty Junior wouldn’t _be_ in court today if it had worked. He feels guilt for his actions, and even feels the need for some sort of retribution against him.”

“I’m sorry Your Honor,” the prosecutor scoffed from her side of the room. “But this all seems rather farfetched to me. You can’t possibly believe this man here to be some top-secret genetic experiment!”

“Shame about your husband,” Moriarty remarked dryly. “Suicide. That can’t be easy to cope with.”

The prosecutor stuttered in shock, giving Moriarty the silence he needed.

“You want proof. I have proof.” He snapped his fingers and Moran handed over a manila folder, which Moriarty handed over to the judge. “All the paperwork from the experiment, as we have taken to calling it. All the records, genetic tests, data, experimental designs—it’s all there. Run the designed DNA with that of James Moriarty Junior and you’ll find it won’t match up with the projected DNA make-up. But that _is_ discussed on page twelve of the final report; last document, the thick one.”

“And who conducted this experiment?” The judge asked after a moment of thumbing through the paperwork.

“A Melissa Alistar. An American woman by birth, at the time a graduate student but later a full blown Ph.D. in Neuroscience.”

“Why haven’t we brought this woman in for questioning?” The judge looked to Sherlock suspiciously over the top of his glasses.

“Because she’s dead,” Jim answered flatly. “I had her killed.”

“By James Moriarty Junior, I assume?”

“No,” Moriarty corrected, a hint of anger in his voice. “By other associates of mine. James wouldn’t have killed her. She was his mother.”

The judge stopped his studying of the files to fix Moriarty with a shock, stern stare.

“You’re telling me the woman who ran the experiment you claim created James Moriarty Junior was his mother?!”

“Makes sense, doesn’t it?” Jim smirked. “Can’t make a psychopathic heir without an egg, after all.”

The judge stared a minute longer, than took off his glasses and cleaned them once more, clearly disgusted. “I don’t have to tell you how twisted that is…”

“Oh please, tell me. I’d love to hear it from you, _Your Honor_.” The title came out as a sneer, Jim’s smirk still playing on his deadened features.

The judge looked to Sherlock to continue his questioning and draw Moriarty’s attention. Sherlock took the hint, taking in a sharp breath before launching back into his inquiries.

“Jim, did you mistreat James Moriarty Junior in order to cause him to become a killer?”

“Yup.” He popped the _p_ , eyes staring blankly at the back wall of the courtroom.

“Did you push James to insanity?”

“I did.”

“Did you speak with Doctor Berk about the actions you took to do so?”

Moriarty’s eyes slowly shifted to the doctor, his smirk reappearing, like a cat watching a mouse. “I did.”

“Your Honor, I’d like to call Doctor Berk back to the stand.”

Moran wheeled Moriarty down, and Doctor Berk came back to the witness stand, sweating profusely and clearing his throat constantly.

“Doctor, after your assessment of the actions taken by James Moriarty Senior, are said actions the cause of James Moriarty Junior’s mental illnesses?”

“I believe they are, yes.”

“Could said actions cause for these mental illnesses to manifest within a very short time span after the action was taken?”

“It has been proven in the past, yes.”

“I would like to call Jim Moriarty back to the stand.”

The switch was made at the judge’s nod.

“Jim, did you take action to force James Moriarty Junior to kill others?”

“Yes.”

“Jim, did you conspire the death of the thirty individuals murdered by James Moriarty Junior?”

“Yes.”

“Jim, did you command James Moriarty Junior, under penalty of death, to kill said people?”

“Yes.”

“Jim, are you responcible for the murder of those thirty people James Moriarty Junior confessed to killing?”

“Most definitely.”

Sherlock turned quickly from the witness stand to face the judge, in his element, talking at a mile a minute.

“Your Honor, I’ve shown you here today that James Moriarty Junior is not the culprit, but rather the victim. He has suffered cruel and unusual abuse by his father, who sits here today and take credit for the murders James Moriarty Junior has previously confessed to. Doctor Berk has proven beyond a reasonable doubt that James Moriarty Junior suffers severe mental illness, and that these illnesses were caused by the abuse he suffered at his father’s hand. Jim Moriarty confessed to forcing James to murder under penalty of _death_. James was not in his right mind at the time of the murders nor was he acting on his own accord. I plead with you to find him not guilty by reason of insanity, as I have proven today he _was_ at the time the crimes were committed.”

Sherlock turned on his heel and returned himself to the defense’s side of the courtroom, sitting beside a stunned James and shuffling his papers.

The judge sat back in his chair, shaking his head in disbelief. “Mr. Moriarty Senior, are you openly admitting to be responcible for the murders James Moriarty Junior is being tried for today?”

Moriarty shrugged. “I am. What of it?”

The judge’s voice raised in pitch out of indignation. “I’ll have you know I could have you _arrested_ and _jailed_ this instant!”

Jim smiled innocently. “Is that right? Well, I’ll let you in on a little secret…” He leaned closer to the judge, a wolfish grin spreading on his face. “I’m already serving jail time. A life sentence in this quaint little place in Denmark. Dreadfully cold, Denmark. Though quite beautiful in the right season. Do you know it? The jail in Copenhagen?”

The judge’s eyebrows raised. “You’re joking! That’s not a real jail! That’s a place where rich criminals can pay to stay and enjoy immunity from all their crimes! It’s a retirement home for felons!”

“And it’s where I’ll be serving my life sentence.” His smile didn’t lessen as Moran wheeled him down from behind the witness stand and down to the court floor. “Besides, there’s a _line_ of people wanting to persecute me. You’ll simply have to wait your turn, Your Honor.”

And with that, Jim Moriarty left the courthouse with his accomplice and caretaker, bound for Denmark where he could live out the rest of his life comfortably and free from court cases and jail time.

____________________________

The judge took his time in his back room coming up with his verdict. James didn’t know whether to be worried or reassured by the time he was taking, but either way he was little more than a mess of nerves. All of his attention was focused on the nonstop tapping of Sherlock’s first finger on the table, then shifted to his handcuffed hands, mind wondering in a panic if he was to spend the rest of his life in the handcuffs he wore then. Doctor Berk had excused himself from the courtroom to use the restroom, no doubt rattled by Moriarty’s presence in the court. The prosecutor had long since looked over her notes, reshuffled her papers, and packed them away neatly. She sat with hands folded atop her briefcase, impatiently waiting to hear the verdict.

The door to the judge’s personal chamber opened, and out came the judge, looking like he had aged half a lifetime since going back. Everyone stood to attention as he took his place back at the bench, cleaning off his glasses and settling himself into his chair.

“Let it go on the record that this has been the strangest case of my career,” he began tiredly. “That being said, it hasn’t been easy to come to my final verdict, but I have. James Moriarty Junior,” his eyes looked over the top of his glasses at James, a look of sternness and anxiousness there. “I have found you not guilty to the charges of murder in the first degree and conspiring to murder. However, I can’t on good conscious let you walk away from this courthouse undisciplined. I find you guilty as an accessory to murder, and hereby sentence you to a minimum of five years imprisonment, at which time you will receive medical help to treat your conditions. If at the end of your prison sentence you are not mentally well enough to reenter society, you will be transferred to a facility to continue further treatment until you are deemed so. Case closed.”

The gable came down on the bench and the loud rap rattled through James’ entire being. All odds had been against him, and yet jail time had never crossed James’ mind as a tangible realty. What was he going to tell Kate Eloise? Would he even have the chance to talk to her again? To even _see_ her again? Two policemen showed up out of nowhere and marched James for the door. James was in shock, moving automatically, but his mind was far away as they marched through the courthouse and then outside. James flinched in the blinding sunlight of midday, eyes further assaulted by the flash of cameras and ears ringing with the buzz of reporters. He and the policemen were mobbed by bulky news cameras, microphones, and fast-talking newscasters throwing question after question their way, each one trying to be louder than the next.

Past all the reporters and their vans was a crowd of people, having gathered because of the massive media presence. James couldn’t see properly past all the equipment shoved in his face, and had only a brief moment to scan the crowd before his head was ducked into the back of a police cruiser and the door shut behind him. Was Kate Eloise in that crowd? Did she know the verdict? Was she crying? He tried to seek out her face as the sirens wailed and the car drove off to drop James at prison, but the faces were too close, the car too fast; he couldn’t recognize anyone if he tried. James refused to give up, plastering his face to the window the entire ride. In his heart, he hoped beyond hope that Kate was out looking at happy little houses with welcome mats and flowers and  green lawns, oblivious to the fact that they wouldn’t be together for five more years at the least. James hoped she was smiling. He hoped she was looking at paint chips and drawing up plans for redesigning the interior of some happy little home.

But everything was changing all the wrong ways. He was going to jail, officially a nut-case in the eyes of society. Would Kate wait for him, a lunatic, for five long years? James wasn’t sure _he_ would wait for himself if he were in her shoes. _She deserves someone better, someone more dependable, more steady_ , he thought. Sinking back into the uncomfortable seat in the back of the police car, James felt like giving up. He felt defeated, cast aside by the law and told _there are no second chances for the likes of you_. Shutting his eyes, James allowed a few tears to escape, rolling down his cheeks. If he didn’t have Kate Eloise, what reason was there to be strong, to hang in there? A new chapter of his life was unfolding, and James feared it may be his last.


	56. Part X

The day was warm and breezy as days often were in that intermediary time when spring and summer traded places. The sun shone down warmly and the air was heady with the scent of blooming flowers coupled with exhaust puffing forth from overheating cars. Molly Hooper had little time to admire such intimate details as she made her way to the playground at a local park, a stack of papers from work in one hand and Lucifer’s impatient fingers tugging at the other.

“We’re gonna be late, Molly!” Lucifer warned anxiously. “Come on!”

“We’re doing fine on time, Lou,” Molly sighed. “You’re going to tug my arm right off if you don’t slow up a bit!”

Molly could hardly believe the tiny, peaceful baby she had met not four years ago had gotten so big. Lucifer sported dark hair of thick, unruly curls that had long overgrown to drape into his eyes and swallow up his ears. His eyes that were once so milky blue-green had darkened up only slightly, with flecks of gold collecting at the center. Even with only the two weeks he had been out of school, Lucifer had tanned up significantly, a skill he could thank his mother’s blood for. Despite the warm weather, he still insisted on wearing his favorite well-loved sweater of fading grey and black thick stripes, jeans so full of rips and holes that only half the material remained that once constituted the pants, and sneakers that seemed to be third generation hand-me-downs from the wear and tear Lucifer had caused them. But with all of Lucifer’s quirks and peculiarities, Molly’s absolute favorite was undoubtedly his missing front tooth, that gave him  both an adorable gap-toothed smile and whistle to his ‘ _s_ ’s.

The instant the playground came into sight, Lucifer took off running for it, determined to get ample playtime with all the slides and swings and climbing things before he had to leave. Molly kept up her steady pace over to a nearby bench where she could keep a close eye on Lucifer. Sitting down, she began shuffling through her papers and reading over the new information and taking notes, being sure to glance towards the playground periodically to be sure Lucifer hadn’t wandered away. Molly found she had little to worry about, as Lucifer made fast friends with the other little boys and girls hanging around and was involved in a raucous game of the-floor-is-lava before very long.

About fifteen minutes went by, Molly absorbed in her work and forgetting to check on Lucifer. He, instead, checked up on her, coming over panting and looking for food.

“Got any biscuits, Molly..?”

“Just some crackers, love,” she dug through her purse and produced a bag of fish crackers.

“Thanks,” Lucifer chimed as he quickly tore open the bag and began stuffing the little fish into his chubby toddler cheeks. He munched a moment standing by the bench, looking around observantly, before deciding to clamber up and sit beside his guardian.

“Whatchya working on?” He asked quietly, curious eyes darting across the papers in Molly’s hands.

“Some reports, new studies and that sort of thing. To keep me up to date.”

Interest piqued, Lucifer set his crackers aside and took up some of the papers Molly had finished with, reading through them with ease, his vocabulary more advanced than many adults’, especially when it came to scientific terminology.

Molly couldn’t help but give a small, sad smile. He was so clever, so enthusiastic about learning and about life. He deserved far better than what he had. He deserved a family, a mother and a father he wouldn’t think to worry about losing. He deserved a mother that didn’t disown him and disappear, and a father who would be there not once in a while but every day of the year. Molly feared that all the passing around from home to home that Lucifer endured were putting undue strain on his sense of self-worth, that no one really wanted him. It broke her heart to think that behind his sage eyes and pensive expression, Lucifer was a sad little boy, lonely, confused, far too humble. He was like a sapling unable to take root, blown about by the cruel wind of life, destine to shrivel up if kept from a permanent home I the soil.

“Hey,” Molly’s voice was soft, betraying her sadness. “Come here.”

She stretched out an arm to the boy who sat beside her. Lucifer took the cue and scooched close to her, leaning into her side as her arm wrapped around his shoulders and gave him an affectionate squeeze.

“I love you Lucifer; you know that, right?”

Lucifer nodded a bit. “I love you too, Molly…”

“And you know your daddy loves you, even if he can’t be around all the time.”

He nodded again.

“And Papa Sherlock, and Uncle Mycroft, and Aunty Kate and Uncle Jamie, and John and Mary, and Mr. and Mrs. Anderson—they all love you too.”

“And Uncle Tin and Uncle Chuck, too?”

Molly smiled. “And them too.” She looked up, smiling more. “And speak of the devils…”

Lucifer looked up, spotting Valentin and Charlie coming down the path to the playground.

“Uncle Tin! Uncle Chuck!” He called excitedly, getting down from the bench and taking off towards them.

Valentin greeted his more-or-less nephew with the brightest of smiles long before he had the chance to scoop him up and twirl him around in the air.

“Lucifer, _zajka,_ how’ve you been?” Valentin hoisted the toddler up onto his shoulders, where Lucifer anchored himself by gripping onto fistfuls of Valentin’s messy blonde hair.

“Been keeping in trouble, I hope?” Charlie winked, hands stuffed comfortably in his jean pockets.

Lucifer giggled. “Silly Uncle Chuck! I have to behave for Miss Molly, ‘member?” Lucifer attempted a wink back, but simply blinked heavily instead.

“Oh, right right,” Charlie dropped his voice to a whisper, sliding closer and shielding his mouth with one hand in a secretive gesture. “Been keeping in trouble?”

Lucifer put up a hand in a similar fashion and whispered back. “You know it!”

“You two are terrible!” Valentin laughed, continuing down the path towards Molly Hooper.

Molly beamed as the three of them drew nearer. “Well if it isn’t the terrible trio!”

“Good to see you too, Ms. Molly,” Charlie tipped his invisible cap and offered up the cheekiest of grins. “Come on Lucifer! Come push me on the swings!”

Charlie stole his nephew from off of Valentin’s shoulders, marching towards the playground with Lucifer tucked under his arm like a lawn chair, the toddler squealing and squirming and laughing the whole way.

“Those two are a riot,” Valentin shook his head fondly. “Charlie keeps asking if we can adopt a kid of our own. I don’t think he understands that for me, having to keep an eye on him all day is equivalent to having five kids!”

Molly laughed. “I’ll bet it is!” She watched as Charlie squeezed himself into one of the tiny swings, spurring Lucifer to push him higher and higher with childish enthusiasm. Lucifer thought it was all great fun, smothered in giggles over an adult using the swings and a kid pushing him.

“So,” Molly continued as Valentin sat beside her on the bench. “How’s your work with Mycroft treating you and Charlie? You guys were gone quite a while this time around.”

Valentin smiled shyly. “Oh, you know. Can’t discuss the details…”

“Right,” Molly smiled to herself, giving it a minute of silence.

“Aright alright, just don’t tell anyone!” Valentin gasped, as if holding his breath, eager to discuss the adventures that were his job.

“Cross my heart,” Molly grinned.

“Charlie and I did some spying stuff in Spain,” Valentin’s eye were wide excitement as he recounted. “There was this huge political decision to be made, and we needed the vote to swing a certain way. If it didn’t, there were actions we had to take to keep losses to a minimum. Needless to say the vote went south, and Charlie and I had our hands full doing damage control.”

“Sounds dangerous..!” Molly couldn’t believe the gentle little Russian boy who landed in the Watson’s lap was dirtying his hands in matters of espionage.

“If you think _that_ is dangerous, you should see the briefing on our _next_ mission!” Valentin laughed nervously.

“Where are you headed?” Molly asked, worried.

“Russia,” Valentin smiled bitterly. “It’ll be nostalgic, I’m sure.”

“When do you two leave?”

He shrugged, turning his attention back to Lucifer and Charlie, the latter of which had attempted the small slide and gotten wedged halfway down. “It’s not solidified yet. Mycroft’s not sure he wants us to do it either.”

“Uncle Tin!!” Lucifer called, hands cupped around his mouth to project his voice. “We need you!”

Valentin smiled, standing. “That’s my cue.”

Molly gathered up the last of her papers, stashing them back in her bag. “It was good to catch up with you, Valentin. Give Lou my love. Call me if you need anything. Otherwise, I’ll see you in the morning.”

Valentin waved Molly Hooper off, then made his way over to where Lucifer was tugging stubbornly on Charlie’s arm, trying to dislodge him from the slide.

“Say _zajka,_ do you think we could pop him out if we slid down into him?”

Charlie groaned. “That doesn’t sound like it would w-”

“Let’s give it a try!” Valentin grinned.

“Yeah!” Lucifer took off running for the ladder, clambering over to the slide and scooting right into Charlie’s back.

“Hmmm,” Valentin mused innocently. “Doesn’t look like it worked. Let me give it a try.”

He squeezed his way up onto the platform and slide down, running into Lucifer, the three of them sitting there stuck, but laughing all the same.

____________________________

“Hey Kate…”

Kate Eloise could never get used to the sound of James’ voice coming to her from the prison phone, not when she could see him sitting across from her, separated by thick glass and an entirely different world.

“Hey Jamie…”

He looked worse and worse every time she was allowed a visit. His face grew thin, cheekbones and jawline pronounced, cheeks hollow, eyes sunken, hair immaculately neat. She couldn’t get over how his the phone shook in his hand, and his free hand trembled uncontrollably while resting on the table. She wasn’t sure if she’d feel better seeing him sad, or even angry, but seeing him smile and try to be cheery for her always broke her heart into pieces.

“How’s the house coming along?”

He always asked the same questions, never varying. Kate wanted to know if something was wrong, but every question of “Are you okay?” always yielded a small smile; almost confused, as if he didn’t understand; almost terrified, as if he didn’t know himself.

“It’s coming along,” Kate answered tiredly. “All the rooms have been repainted, and there’s some furniture that I ordered that should be delivered soon.”

James smiled. “Plant that garden yet..?”

Kate smiled back. “Not yet, but I’ve got a spot set aside for it. The garden’s _your_ job, mister!”

“How’s everyone doing..?” James changed the subject as if totally forgetting they were talking about something else, expression flickering over to urgency, uneasiness.

Kate frowned; it was a habit she had noticed in him getting worse over the past two years he had been in jail. It was almost as if something in his head short circuited, and that a part of him knew something was wrong, but consciously he was oblivious.

“They’re doing well…” She was reluctant to talk about anyone by name, as it had caused James panic and confusion before; the information she had given him contradicted what he knew from his schizophrenic versions of his friends, and the disharmony pushed him to the tipping point.

A man walked up behind James, saying something to him Kate couldn’t hear over the phone. Panic danced in James’ eyes when he looked back at her.

“Got to go. Love you, Kate Eloise.”

“James, wait-..! What’s going o-” The line clicked closed, and the man hauled James up out of the seat and marched him back into the prison. Kate sat where she was numbly, not moving until a guard escorted her to the door.

“Have a nice visit?”

Kate looked up, blinking away threatening tears to see Mycroft hanging about outside the visiting center for the prison. As always, he was clad from head to toe in the finest of dress, with his iconic umbrella employed as a walking stick onto which he leaned. Despite the fact the Mycroft was climbing in years, with his hair turned wispy grey and his face creased and beginning to sag, he still looked as sharp and formidable as ever, youth living on in his intelligent eyes.

Not waiting for an answer, Mycroft continued. “I’m sure you’ve noticed as well as I the deteriorating condition of our dearest James. I simply want to inform you, Ms. Watson, that I have made a few calls to some old friends and cashed in a few favors. I can assure you the worst day will from now on be behind young master James.”

“It’s the medication, isn’t it?” Kate wiped her sleeve across her eyes. “It’s killing him.”

“In a sense,” Mycroft sighed. “I’m having him switched off the nasty pills, inserted into a clinical trial of sorts that has, so far, looked far more promising. Unfortunately, James can’t serve his jail time _and_ participate.”

“What are you saying..?”

Mycroft clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Master James will just have to cut the jail time a few years short. His mental health is top priority, after all. I think he’s earned his innocence, don’t you?”

Kate Eloise couldn’t keep herself from hugging Mycroft. “I can’t thank you enough for this, Mycroft!”

Mycroft tolerated the hug—just this once. “Consider it an early wedding present to the two of you.”

Kate laughed, crying from absolute relief, taking a step back from the icy Mycroft to allow him to straighten the wrinkles from his clothes. Having done so, he bowed his head.

“Good evening, Ms. Watson.” And with that, he went on inside the prison to alter the course of James’ future; thankfully, for the better.

Kate Eloise wasted no time in returning to her car and driving home, her spirits lifted higher than they had been in years. She only smiled brighter as she remembered Valentin and Charlie were spending the night at her new house with her, along with Lucifer. But before she could get home, there was one stop she had to make. She swung by a local flower shop run by a good friend of Mrs. Hudson’s, buying up as many pots of baby’s breath she could fit in her small car.

As she pulled up into her driveway, Valentin, Charlie, and Lucifer were already at play, running about in the front lawn and playing tag. Kate Eloise honked to get their attention, sticking her head out the window to call to them.

“I need your muscles over here, boys! I’ve got some flowers for us to put in the ground!”

Later, as the boys busied themselves building a pillow fort, Kate couldn’t help but wander outside and admire the baby’s breath filling the flowerbeds around the front porch. She smiled to think that a plant could take such a trampling of feet and rough hands and still bloom such beautiful, delicate flowers. The flowers marked a new beginning, a new hope, for Kate and James. So long as they continued to bloom, Kate knew things would turn out alright for the two of them.


	57. Chapter 57

Most days, James found it near impossible to get out of bed. What was the point? The day was empty, pointless, full of pills and overly cheery nurses and a reality so plastic James often mistook it all for a hallucination. But today was different. Today, James got up with the sun that shined warmly through the window of his bedroom in the hospital, did some stretches, greeted his nurse with a smile that was nearly as bright as her fake one.

“Good morning, Ms. Thompson!” James chimed.

Pleasantly surprised, the young nurse stopped in her tracks.

“Well good morning to you too, Mr. Moriarty!” She laughed. “Someone’s in an exceptionally good mood today!”

“Well it is my _last_ day,” James replied cheekily.

Ms. Thompson shook her head as she sat down his tray of breakfast and medication. “Don’t be so happy to say goodbye, Mr. Moriarty! It’s simply not polite!”

“I’m not happy about saying goodbye,” James corrected, walking over to the tray and gulping his pills along with his glass of water. “I’m happy because of who I get to say hello to once again!”

Ms. Thompson giggled, a knowing blush coming to her plump cheeks. “You’ll invite us all to the wedding, won’t you?”

“Only if you can think of a good alias,” James said, munching on toast reflectively. “Don’t want to alarm anyone with the words _‘Oh, how do I know the happy couple? Well I helped James with his mental illnesses!’_ ”

Ms. Thompson gave his arm a playful whack as she headed out. “You’re awful, Mr. Moriarty.”

“You know it!” James called after her, returning to gulping down his breakfast, eager to speed through the day full of tests and scrutiny to determine if he was to be released or not at the 4:30 cut off.

It had been a rough four years for James. Three of which were spent in prison, and the last, after tons of legal battles and complaints by high powers, in which James was finally allowed parole to pursue full-time medical help in a trial testing a new drug to treat schizophrenia. The treatment wasn’t easy. James had been restrained, locked up, tied down, force-fed, drugged, knocked unconscious, among others, more times in the past year than he could remember. But for the past month, things had been looking up. The hallucinations stopped. The visions ceased occurring. The nightmares came rarely at best. Just the week before, James had taken a test sent by the government to determine his sanity. Two days ago, he had learned that he had passed as sane. If all went well today with the hospital’s own tests, James was free to continue treatment from the comfort of his own home.

The thought made his heart race, wondering with a mix of excitement and dread just how much had changed. Clutching to the heart locket he always wore around his neck, James thought of Kate Eloise. All the legality of trying to end his sentence early had made it extremely difficult to see Kate during his last year in jail, and visitors weren’t permitted for full-time residents of the hospital partaking in trails; something about controlling outside variables. Two years without so much as seeing Kate Eloise’s smiling face. Two years without hearing her reassuring voice. James couldn’t quite remember what she sounded like, nor every last detail of her face. The notion that he might forget his Kate Eloise was enough to send James into a full-blown panic attack. He gripped tighter to the locket, took a deep breath. A few more hours and he would see her again, hold her in his arms, say _I love you_ and hear an _I love you too_.

The day crept by painfully slow. It was one of downsides to James’ medication: he was constantly bored. With no fanciful escape to his mind palace—kept from him along with the hallucinations—James struggled to occupy his twelve hours of daylight, going through dozens of puzzles in less than five minutes, solving Rubik’s cubes like children’s toys, plowing through philosophy books and the most complicated of text books in under an hour. And after spending close to a month fully recovered, the hospital was long since out of puzzles and books James hadn’t yet seen. Instead, James sat on his bed, one knee drawn up to his chest, his foot bouncing anxiously on the ground, eyes going red from prolonged staring at the clock, anticipation growing with every quiver of the second hand. His mind raced with thoughts, curiosities, ideas, conversational topics, physics theories, new philosophies, calculus proofs, complex chemical models—but above all else, thoughts of Kate Eloise. Just the thought of her was enough to steady his heartbeat, regulate his breathing, do away with his tension. Kate Eloise. He couldn’t wait to see her! Another glance at the clock, only another second past, and with it a renewed sense of anxiety.

Slowly but surely, the hours crept by, and a nurse came in to escort James to a lab for testing. He went, anxiety pent up inside him, unable to stay still. The questions came at him calmly, monotonous, the room void of distraction, void of anything James could latch his attention onto. He was painfully aware of the electrodes stuck to his head, on his chest, taking his measurements, observing his mind. Could they see all the thoughts rolling around inside?

“Answer the question please, Mr. Moriarty.”

James answered, wondering immediately if it was the wrong thing to say. What seemed like centuries eventually passed. James barely heard the congratulations, hardly took note of the happy faces of the people who had developed the drug. The only thing he heard was: “You can go home!”

To James, it felt like he blinked and he was suddenly packed and sitting in the hospital’s waiting room, small suitcase in his lap, hands folded passively atop. Ms. Thompson sat beside him, reading the lobby magazines, making sure James was properly released. She assured James that Kate Eloise had been contacted, and was on her way to sign the release forms. Despite everything, James felt chest-crushing worry festering inside him. After spending all day counting down each and every second, finally awaiting Kate’s triumphant return into his life made James feel completely unprepared. Would she expect a date? He didn’t know which places were popular anymore. Was she expecting to be swept off her feet? James was by far too overwhelmed to try anything spontaneously romantic. Hell, after four years—three of which were spent with little to no communication—was she still even interested in a relationship, let alone a marriage?

“James!”

He was startled from his thoughts by the sound of his name pronounced with such excitement and pain. His eyes flickered over to the entrance to the hospital, where a teary-eye, twenty-four-year-old Kate Eloise stood standing with tentative anticipation. Slowly, James got to his feet, suitcase held at his side, eyes betraying his heart-broken terror. Not another moment could slip past before Kate had her arms around James, hugging him tightly as to never let him go again. James numbly put his arms around her, cheek resting on the top of her head, still not quite sure it all wasn’t a dream.

“You cut your hair…” James said plainly, noticing how the once wild, shoulder length waviness had been cropped back to chin length and styled in such a way to draw the mind to the 1920s.

Kate laughed, relieved to hear his voice. “And you shaved yours!”

It was true, though James hardly had time to think about it. When he got to the hospital, they had shaved his head to make attaching electrodes for brain-wave readings an easier thing to do, and had maintained it at a conservatively cropped length, an old scar from his first encounter with Moriarty quite visible.

“Yeah,” James said numbly. “Guess I did…”

He was cut short as Kate pulled him down by the shoulders on his shirt and into a kiss. Every last bit of uncertainty melted away, and James couldn’t help but grin from the high of sheer relief. He hoisted her up by the waist, spinning her around in a circle, listening to her giggles before pulling her back in for a hug, foreheads resting against one another.

“Missed you,” James smiled.

“Did you now?” Kate grinned back, doing her best to fix his ruffled shirt. “I would have never guessed.”

“Miss me?” James asked cheekily.

Kate leaned in closer, voice a breathy purr. “How about we head home and you find out for yourself?”

James’ grin spread from ear to ear, his entire face blushing. “Sounds good to me.”

Kate pulled away suddenly, still smiling. “Good! Let’s get you checked out!”

James watched as she made her way to the front desk, chatting casually with the woman there was if nothing had happened. James shook his head, picking up his suitcase from the ground.

“Congratulations, Mr. Moriarty,” Ms. Thompson beamed as she returned the magazines to the lobby’s coffee table. “You’re free to go!”

Free. James breathed in deeply, cherishing the word. Free, from the hospital, from custody, from his crimes, from his past. Free to move forward a new man, free to spend the rest of his life with the love of his life. Kate turned back to him from the desk, smiling with her tongue pressing up against her teeth in childish anticipation. James smiled back. For that smile, for their future, the last four hellish years were suddenly quite worth it.


	58. Chapter 58

“You nervous?” Valentin teased with his never-ending grin shining on his face.

“Shut up,” James replied only half-heartedly, quite distracted in his efforts to straighten his bowtie in the mirror.

It was the big day. The wedding day. To James, it was hands-down the most wonderful moment in his whole life. He couldn’t wait to be married to his Kate Eloise. But he was still nervous as hell.

“Is my hair alright?” He wondered aloud, hands reaching up to fumble around with his very short hair, which in no way could ever be messy. “Is this thing on straight?” His hands retreated back to the bowtie, tugging it back in forth in a vain attempt to render it perfect, pulling a face at himself in the mirror. “God, does it even go with my suit?!”

“It’s a wedding, James. You wear black and white. Your bowtie is black. It matches.”

Jay lurked in the back of the dressing room, sitting atop of stack of extra chairs from the dining hall, feet propped up on a second stack. He was decked out head-to-toe in his Groomsmen suit, and spent the majority of his time picking at his teeth with a toothpick out of sheer boredom, his other hand busy holding an ice pack to his scuffed and swollen face and black eye, trying to reduce the swelling.

“Hey, I think it looks good,” Valentin offered to James, lending a hand in straightening the confounded bowtie. “And while your fashion advice is thoughtful, _starshiy bratt_ , it’s _my_ job as Best Man to give the advice.”

Jay rolled his eyes behind the ice pack. “I would have been Best Man if my attendance hadn’t been so last minute.”

“No offense, Jay, but Tin is far more qualified for the position than you are,” James smiled.

“You’re breaking my heart, Junior,” Jay said in mock injury.

Valentin picked up his phone as it buzzed, finding a new text message. “It’s Charlie. Kate and her entourage are on their way.”

James gulped, standing. “To the church, then.”

Jay rolled down from his throne of chairs, clapping James on the shoulder. “Come on, James. You’ll do great.” He shrugged. “Well…unless you forget your vows, or see the bride before you’re supposed to, or-”

“ _Tishina_!” Valentin cut in, giving Jay a stern look from James’ other side, looking back at James. “You’ll do great. Period.”

The three brothers made their way from the reception room to the main hall of the church, passing by eleven-year-old Alfie Anderson, an usher, who took his job of escorting guests to their appropriate seats about as seriously as one could. James gulped, becoming increasingly nervous at the sight of the alter, and all the people who had attended. Old friends James knew well, people who had introduced themselves as close friends of his late mother, people that knew The Watson’s that James had never seen before in his life; they were all present to see James and Kate Eloise marry.

“James!” Mary Watson beamed, turning from where she was conversing with guests to give him a hug.

“Oh hi, Mrs. Watson,” James smiled sheepishly, returning her hug.

Mary grinned in uncontainable excitement. “You ready, then? Nervous much? Ohh, you’re nervous alright, I can see it!”

“Just a little bit…!” James laughed breathily, rubbing the back of his head unconsciously.

Mary laughed. “You’ll be fine, Jamie. Even if you mess something up, I doubt Kate will notice. Last I saw her she was head over heels! More excited than I am, if you can believe it.” She checked her phone. “Time to get a picture with the bride! If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen…”

As Mary hurried out of the church to meet the bride and her entourage, James sat with Valentin and Jay in the front pew. James could hardly sit still, shifting every couple of seconds, tugging on his collar, biting back emotions as they swelled up and subsided over and over in waves. He hardly noticed as Sherlock came up and sat beside him.

“You alright?” He asked, eyes dark with concern. “You look terrible.”

“Don’t say that!” Valentin scolded, pinning a corsage to James’ tuxedo. “You look fine, James. It’s totally natural to be overwhelmed.”

“I’m fine,” James nodded to Sherlock, trying to console the man who didn’t understand weddings in the slightest.

Sherlock took a hold of James’ shoulder firmly, supportively, opening his mouth to give some words of encouragement. When nothing came out, Sherlock just gave a resolute nod. James smiled, pulling Sherlock into a hug.

“Thanks for being here,” James said. “I know weddings aren’t really your scene…”

Sherlock pulled away, managing a smile. “If it means this much to you, James, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

And with that, Sherlock retreated back to his seat, clearly distraught and not quite sure why.

____________________________

Kate Eloise was absolutely ecstatic as she drove to the church in a fancy old-timey car, chauffer in the driver’s seat and her and John Watson in the back. Ahead of them drove the car full of the bridesmaids, a flower girl, a cheeky Charlie, and five-year-old Lucifer the ring bearer. Despite Kate’s intoxicating excitement, John sat in silence, not so sure he was ready to hand over his little girl into James’ care. Kate elbowed him playfully, grinning.

“Cheer up, Dad!” She laughed. “It’s not like you’re carting me to my funeral!”

“It’s just-… I’m sad to see you go, is all…” John looked down.

“Oh come on Dad! I’ve been living on my own for three years now! Nothing’s gonna change! I’m only a few minutes away, and I’ll visit often, I promise!”

“But-… are you sure you want to do this so soon?” John looked at her, worried. “I mean, James _just_ got out of the hospital. You don’t know how stable he is, or-…”

Kate grew serious. “I would have married James the minute he proposed if that’s what he would have wanted. The only reason he served his time and got help was for _your_ benefit, Dad. He’s trying to make _you_ happy. I was more than happy with him already.”

John returned to silence as the cars pulled into the church parking lot, getting out of the car and helping Kate Eloise out on her side. The bridesmaids swarmed them, and Kate’s mood immediately rocketed back up to its cloud nine status. Six-year-old, tuxedo-clad Lucifer stood off to the side, curly hair brushed vigorously into a neat shape atop his head, holding the pillow with the wedding rings, careful not to drop it. Kate smiled, bending down to be at his eye level.

“You ready Luke?” She asked with a smile. “This is your big scene.”

“Ready,” he nodded, expression quite somber.

Kate gave him a small hug. “Don’t forget to smile, now. Everyone just _loves_ your smile!”

Lucifer offered one up, small and innocent. Kate gave him a thumbs up before standing and returning to her bridesmaids. Pictures needed to be taken. One of Kate Eloise and her bridesmaids. One of her and her parents. One of Lucifer and the young flower girl, the redheaded granddaughter of a friend of Mary’s. One of the bridesmaids with Valentin, Charlie, and Jay, who made up the Groomsmen. One of Valentin, the Best Man, and the Maid of Honor, Kate’s best friend from high school. Many more pictures were snapped before it was time to begin the ceremony. The organ cued up inside the church. Everyone filed into place. The doors to the church flung open. The wedding began.

James watched, standing at the pulpit, as Valentin came walking down the aisle accompanied by the Maid of Honor. At the end of the pews, they split, taking their place on their respective side of the pulpit. Valentin stood ridged beside James, smiling easily but clearly just as nervous as his brother. The two of them watched as the bridesmaids came down the aisle, standing beside the Maid of Honor, followed by Jay and Charlie, who took their place beside Valentin; Jay stood between the two boyfriends, fortunately for everyone who was looking forward to a serious event. Next down the aisle came Lucifer and the redheaded flower girl, hand in hand. Lucifer parted ways with his flower girl, handing off the ring to Valentin before standing in front of Jay, all smiles to be with his dad. James gulped, knowing very well who was to come down the aisle next.

And all of a sudden, there she was, Kate Eloise Watson, in the most gorgeous of floral wedding dresses, simple and elegant all at once. John escorted her arm in arm down the aisle, keeping to the traditional slow pace. Kate Eloise couldn’t keep a straight face, spotting James in his tuxedo and his eyes brimming with tears, and breaking out into a radiant smile. Everyone in the pews were smiling and tearing up, too, at the sight of how happy a couple James and Kate Eloise were certain to make. Even Sherlock was spotted blinking more rapidly than usual.

And then the moment came: Kate Eloise reached the pew. James offered a hand to her, to which Kate freed her arm from John’s embrace and took James’ hand instead, joining him with an eager grin that put James’ nerves at ease. John stood off to the side with the bridesmaids, doing his best to keep back the tears that threatened him constantly. The organ music played its last chords. A silence fell over the church, filled only when the preacher marrying the couple spoke up.

“Family and friends,” he began. “We are gathered here today to witness the joining of Ms. Kate Eloise Watson and Mr. James Timothy Allen Moriarty Junior in holy matrimony. As it were, this commitment is not one to be made lightly, but reverently, passionately, lovingly, and solemnly. Knowing this, these two come here today to be joined. If any persons knows of any reason why these two should not be joined together on this day, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

The church was silent, causing Kate to grin even further. The preacher continued.

“James Timothy Allen, will you take Kate Eloise to be your wife? Will you love her, comfort her, honor and protect her, and forsaking all others, be faithful to her, as long as you both shall live?”

“I will,” James said through the tears he was holding back.

“Kate Eloise, will you take James Timothy Allen to be your husband? Will you love him, comfort him, honor and protect him, and forsaking all others, be faithful to him, as long as you both shall live?”

“I will,” Kate smiled.

The preacher looked up. “Will you, the family and friends of James and Kate, support and uphold them in the marriage now, and in the years to come?”

“We will,” came the unanimous voice of all attending.

“Who supports this woman in her marriage?”

“I do,” answered John, clearing his throat.

“Kate and James, I invite you now to join hands, and make your vows in the presence of God and his people.”

Kate Eloise and James turned towards one another, joining hands. James drew in a deep breath.

“Kate,” he began with a tiny tremble in his voice. “I have known you… since you were very young. We both were. I remember our first time together very well, though I don’t expect you to recall… you were only three, after all… I remember we went up to your playroom, and I was terrified. I had never been around kids younger than me at that point, and I had absolutely no clue as to what I was going to do to keep you occupied. But you had it all figured out, Kate. You knew we were going to play tea party, and you were dragging me along for the ride whether I liked it or not.” James laughed to himself. “It seems like such a silly thing, thinking back. You and me, dressing up and having a tea party with all your stuffed animals. But it was so much more than that, Kate. I was always so obsessed with living up to who I was, always being told that I was smart, always feeling that I had to prove myself to others. But here you were, not caring who I was outside of the playroom, only that I took on a role and stuck with it. Already, at just three years old, you were giving me a second chance. That’s what you’ve always done for me, Kate Eloise. You always believed in me when everyone else doubted, you always stuck by my side when everyone else didn’t want to get too close, you always took me at face value when everyone else stood around scrutinizing my past. You saved my life, Kate Eloise, more than I think you’ll ever truly know. It is a privilege, no, an _honor_ , to accept the role as your partner. And I promise that no matter how circumstances change, no matter how the years treat us, as long as the sun still burns in the sky I will love you, and protect you, and do whatever it takes to see you happy. I make this promise, not only in front of you, Kate, but in front of all our family and friends, so that they, along with myself, will uphold me to my word. I love you, Kate Eloise Watson, more than life itself.”

Kate was in tears, much like many in the pews. Her smile still radiated through it all, and she quickly wiped tears from her eyes as she took in a breath for her own vow.

“James,” she beamed. “I can’t remember a day when I didn’t think about you. All my life, it seems, you were there in some way, whether you were present, or being worried about by your friends, or being worried about by me. I was infatuated with you the moment we met, and over time I realized that my fascination had matured into an affection. And it was you, James, with you kindness and your thoughtfulness and your big heart, that grew my affections into love.” She paused a moment to smile at James, who was having trouble blinking back the tears in his eyes. “You and I know—all of us here know—about the hard times these past few years have been for us, but mostly you, James. It was a time in which your integrity, intentions, and sanity all came into question. But when everyone else found themselves doubtful of you, I knew in my heart that you were no different an indicted man than you were a free one. In fact, I knew your integrity to be greater, your intentions to be purer, your sanity to be unquestionable because of your decision to turn yourself in and clear your name. Know that my love for you never faltered in those trying times, but instead grew firm and undoubtable in your absence. Now that you are free once more, we come here together to this church to be united in holy matrimony. I want nothing more in life than to spend it with you, James. I promise you that I will always love you, honor you, protect your name against all you speak against it. And I know, that with God as my witness, my days could not be spent happier than to be spent in your constant company. So that’s how I vow to spend them. With you.”

If anyone hadn’t been crying up to that point, they certainly were now. Even the preacher seemed more misty-eyed than he had been a minute ago. James and Kate were a teary mess at the altar, but they were a happy, radiant mess. At the preacher’s nod, Valentin presented the rings, passing them to the preacher as he tried to keep from crying too much.

“Let these rings be a symbol of your marriage here today,” the preacher spoke. “May they bind you to the vows you have taken at the altar, and may they accompany you into the prosperous years to come.”

James took Kate’s ring, slipping it gently onto her ring finger. “I, James Timothy Allen Moriarty, give you, Kate Eloise Watson, this ring as an eternal symbol of my love and commitment to you.”

Kate took up James’ ring with a smile, slipping it onto his finger. “I, Kate Eloise Watson, give you, James Timothy Allen Moriarty, this ring as an eternal symbol of my love and commitment to you.”

Hand and hand, they turned to face the preacher, anticipation tense in the room for the words about to be spoken.

“James and Kate,” the preacher smiled. “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you… husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

James swept Kate up into a happy kiss, her arms coming up around his neck as they always did. The organ burst into joyful music as the room rang with applause. The happy couple pulled away from one another, grinning in absolute euphoria. Kate couldn’t help but go back in for one last kiss. James laughed, absolutely overjoyed, hoisting Kate up by the waist and giving her a quick twirl around.

The preacher’s voice was heard above all else. “I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Watson.”

Friends and family applauded once more before making their way out of the church to gather rice and flowers to shower the couple when they exited. Sherlock, however, made his way up front, where he stood by and waited to fulfill his role as a witness to the official signing of the marriage registrar. Jay hoisted Lucifer onto his shoulders, smiling more than he ever had as he made his way outside with his son to join everyone else. The preacher, the newlyweds, Valentin, and Sherlock all made their way to a back room to participate in the signing. Once done, James looked at Kate with a mischievous smile.

“Hey, follow me. I have something I want to show you.”

“What are you up to Jamie?” Kate grinned knowingly, following hand in hand all the same.

James grinned but revealed nothing, leading her through a bunch of small hallways and rooms through the church, eventually coming to a door and exiting through it to a secret parking lot, where James’ 67 Impala Convertible sat waiting, the words _Newly Wed, Bitches!_ written in car paint on the hood in Charlie’s crude handwriting. He opened up the passenger side door, helping Kate and all her wedding dress to get inside before vaulting himself over the door and into the driver’s seat, throwing on aviator sunglasses.

“What are you doing?” Kate giggled uncontrollably as James did his best to seem cool.

“Just hold on tight, wifey-poo.” He revved the engine to life in an exhilarating roar, and sped off, passing all the wedding guests waiting around front of the church. Kate laughed and screamed in excitement as they passed, not caring as James drove them onto the road and made his way into London.

The drove and drove until finally reaching a very fancy hotel. James pulled up and handed his keys to a valet attendant, coming around to help Kate out of her side.

“We’re not honey-mooning yet, are we?” she asked, disappointment edging into her tone.

James looked injured, eyeing her over the top of his sunglasses. “Of course not! Our honey-moon will be _far_ more fantastic a venue than this! Just trust me!”

He led her into the hotel, nodding to a man behind the check-in desk, who came up and took the couple up in the elevator to a very fancy restaurant, then led them to a staircase with a door at the top, which the man had to unlock. Despite having said nothing, Kate had a knowing smile on her face as she emerged onto the roof of the hotel, where a table for two was set.

“Remember our first real date?” James smiled.

“I remember there being candles,” Kate teased.

“Doesn’t have the same effect during the day, I’m afraid. Trust me, I tested it out.”

Kate grabbed a fistful of James’ tuxedo and pulled him into a kiss. “I love you, James.”

James smiled. “Well you better. You just married me.”

Kate laughed, giving him a playful punch to the shoulder. The two of them sat at the table, admiring the view of the city from their position way up high. The time ticked by as they enjoyed the food and each other’s company. James checked his watch.

“Shouldn’t we be getting back for the reception..?”

Kate laughed. “Oh I’m sure Valentin will have it all functioning without us. Don’t worry. We’ll make it back in time for our dance.”

James smiled. “Seems fitting. Having dinner on the hotel roof like our first date, and then leaving for a dance…”

Kate beamed. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“I love you, Kate Eloise.”

“I love you more, dickhead.”

“I love you most, foul-mouth.”

“What did you just call me!?”

“Nothing sweetheart. You’re the greatest!”

The two of them broke out in giggles. There was no doubting the love that they shared for one another, nor the happy days that were sure to come.


	59. Chapter 59

The night was falling as softly as the puffy snowflakes drifting lazily down from the sky to join the already thick blanket of snow covering everything in London. Very few cars were still zipping about through the slushy streets, as most were home with their families and friends, celebrating. It was Christmas Eve, a time to break away from the business of city life to be with the ones who mean the most. And in the suburbs surrounding London, James and Kate Eloise were preparing to do just that. Their house stuck out as the most decorated of their neighborhood, lights on every last tree, bush, and gutter, of every color, of every blinking pattern both simple and complex, quick and lethargic. They were a true beacon for all their friends and family who were scheduled to arrive within the hour. As it were, Kate Eloise was at her busiest, dusting every surface she passed, moving chairs, cleaning up toys, straightening magazines on coffee tables, doing just about everything all at once.

“James!” She called in desperation. “Come help me out, please!”

“Be right there, honey!” James called distractedly, crouching in front of the window to watch the snow coming down. “Isn’t it magical, Johnny?”

A small boy no older than three with sunny blonde hair and curious grey eyes, with hands pressed up against the glass, looked at James and smiled. “Very!”

James smiled fondly at his son, looking back out the window. “Do you think Santa will still make it through all that snow?”

“Don’t be silly, Daddy!” Johnny giggled, stepping away from the window to hold James’ hand, tugging at it. “Let’s help Mommy. Come on, Daddy.”

“Good thinking, little man.” James scooped up his son and hoisted him onto his shoulders, jogging back to the living room while pretending to be an airplane, causing much laughter from Johnny.

Kate smiled as her husband and her son came flying into the living room, watching as James played out his role of pilot in landing Johnny back onto the ground.

“Daddy, does Santa have a jet plane?” Johnny asked as he made his way over to Kate.

James shrugged. “I don’t know, buddy. I’d say he does in this day and age.”

“Or maybe he has a jet sleigh instead,” Kate added as she picked up Johnny and held him as he leaned against her shoulder, clearly tired from a long day of excitement and anticipation.

“I like that, Mommy.” Johnny said from around the thumb he had stuck in his mouth.

“I’m glad, sweetheart.”

“Mommy, when’s everyone gonna get here?”

“Very soon, honey. But we’ve got to finish straightening up first.”

“Will they get here if we don’t finish?”

“Yes, but your mommy would be very cross if they do. So let’s finish up real fast!”

Between James and Kate cleaning and Johnny imitating their dusting and straightening up, the three of them managed to make the house something close to immaculate before the first ring came at the door. As soon as the sound echoed through the house, Johnny was immediately bolting towards the door, doing his best with the doorknob to let in his first guest. James came up behind him and helped out with getting the door to open, and Johnny peaked through the crack before the door was even fully open. Standing on the porch was Molly and a nine-year-old Lucifer.

“Aunt Molly! Lou!” Johnny exclaimed in excitement.

“Hi there J.J.!” Luke grinned, immediately pursuing his cousin with tickling fingers. Johnny giggled uncontrollably and took off running, Luke trying to follow.

“Not so fast, Luke!” Molly chided. “Take off your boots. The last thing we need is to track slush through Aunt Kate and Uncle James’ home.”

“Sorry Uncle Jamie,” Luke said sheepishly and he tugged at his snow boots, eager to get them off and chance his cousin in good sport. And as soon as the boots were off, he did just that.

James let Molly in, hugging her warmly. “It’s great to see you, Molly!”

“You’re looking wonderful, James!” Molly smiled. “Family life suiting you?”

James couldn’t help but grin at the distant squeal of Johnny, who had no doubt been found by his older cousin. “Very well, actually.” He looked back outside, the smile falling from his face ever so slightly. “Is Sherlock coming, do you know?”

Molly shook her head. “He’s still out of the country, as far as I know.”

James looked at her quizzically. “I thought he said he’d be back before Christmas.”

Molly shrugged as she took off her winter coat and boots. “Maybe he’ll show at the last minute. Who knows. He’s Sherlock.”

“Yeah…” James voice trailed off as he looked back out into the flurry of snow, now visible only in the porch light as the night grew ever darker.

The evening went on and more people arrived, including the Phillip, Carol, and fourteen-year-old Alfred Anderson. Young Alfred was in that awkward position of not wanting to fool around with baby Johnny and nine-year-old Lucifer, but not really being able to join in with the adult conversation. Instead, he stood off to the side on his own, texting on his phone between rounds for food and dessert. James was more than happy to converse with all he and Kate Eloise’s friends, but he couldn’t help but keep checking his watch, waiting for both the Watson’s and Sherlock and Valentin.

A knock came at the door. Johnny took off to answer it, with James following at a more appropriate pace. Together they opened the door to find John and Mary Watson waiting outside with big smiles.

“Grandma, Grandpa!” Johnny squeaked happily, rushing into their outstretched arms.

“How’s my big old grandson doing, eh?” John asked with a wry smile.

“Good!” Johnny beamed.

“Being good for your mama and dad?” Mary asked with mock sternness.

“Always, Grandma!” Johnny answered angelically, causing Mary to laugh.

“Well you’re remembering to get into _some_ trouble, aren’t you?”

Johnny’s nose wrinkled as his grin turned impish. “Oh yes!”

Mary grinned back, her nose wrinkling the same way as she tapped Johnny’s nose playfully. “Good lad.”

“Mom! Dad!” Kate smiled as she rounded the corner, opening her arms to take them both in for a hug, catching Johnny peeking into Mary’s purse. “Johnathan Sherlock Scott Watson! What do you think you’re up to?”

Johnny’s hands retreated from the purse to behind his back like a scolded dog. “Just looking for presents.”

“Don’t be cheeky now, Johnny boy,” John warned with a soft smile, slipping his grandson a small wrapped box as he did. “You’ll get your present eventually.”

Johnny beamed up at his grandpa and took off running to open his new present someplace private. Kate shook her head.

“You spoil him, Dad!”

John shrugged. “I’ve got no other grandkids to spoil, so he gets and extra helping.”

James glanced back out the window; nothing but snowflakes, coming down thicker and with more fury. “Any word from Sherlock?”

John and Mary shook their heads. “None,” said John. “But if he said he’d be home for Christmas, I’m sure he’ll be here at some point.”

Kate led her parents into the kitchen where everyone else stood chatting and snacking, but James stayed behind, eyes still fixated out the door window. _Where was Sherlock and Valentin?_ The two of them were on some covert mission on behalf of Mycroft, along with Charlie. Valentin had mentioned that if all went well, he and Charlie would be implanted safely into Russia and still have time for a quick Christmas break before they began their extended stay in the frigid country. _If all went well_. James had a sinking feeling that something had gone amiss.

The night went on, everyone laughing and drinking and relishing the company of those dear to them. As the hour grew closer and closer to midnight, little Johnny couldn’t keep his eyes open a minute longer. With his new digital camera in hand—unwrapped from John and Mary’s present—Johnny was carried off to his room where he could sleep away from the drum of conversation. Lucifer became withdrawn once the distraction that was his little cousin was taken away. All attempts at conversing with Alfred were met with snobbish silence, and Lucifer instead went off on his own to read the books in the study.

As the midnight hour became minutes away, James made his rounds to all rooms of the house, sending everyone to the family room where all presents sat glistening under a luscious Douglas fir. James poked his head in the study, not expecting to find anyone, and spotted Lucifer sitting in the far corner with his book hiding his face.

“Hey Luke,” James said quietly, concerned as he entered the study. “Whatchya doing..?”

“Reading,” Lucifer mumbled quietly, eyes having turned somewhat red from what James thought was excessive staring at the book pages, but a moment later recognized as crying.

James sat down beside Lucifer, resting his arms on his knees, not pushing Lucifer for the reason for his tears. A minute of silence passed between them before Lucifer decided to speak up.

“Do you think my dad’s gonna show up?” He asked, voice trembling as tears welled up in his eyes again, sniffling roughly. 

James could have seen the question coming from a mile away, but that didn’t make it any easier to answer. He let out a prolonged sigh.

“Can I tell you a story, Luke? About your dad?”

Lucifer sniffled again, wiping at his eyes and nose before nodding, tears silently spilling unchecked.

“It was Christmas Eve,” James began quietly. “Your dad and I, we weren’t with our friends and family like this. The two of us were out in the cold of Ukraine, doing some work for my dad.”

“The consulting criminal..?” Lucifer inquired.

“Yeah. So it was dirty work. The worst kind, too, ‘cause it was Christmas. I remember it was so cold, your dad and I had to stop what we were doing to get inside and warm up or we would have been popsicles. So we went inside the first place that was still open—it was really late, after all. And I remember, I looked around, and I realized we were in a bar. There were lots of people there, maybe even all the people from the town—it was a tiny little town. And everyone was singing. And even though they were singing in Ukrainian, I knew they were singing Christmas carols. The tune was familiar, the tone was so cheery, it just _had_ to be Christmas carols. And I went further than that, listened harder, and realized they were singing Jingle Bells. And in the moment, when I recognized the song, I remember I turned to your father, this big grin on my face, and I said to him: ‘ _It’s Jingle Bells, Jay! They’re singing Jingle Bells!_ ’. And he gave me the most confused look I’ve ever seen. He didn’t know Jingle Bells.”

“He didn’t know Jingle Bells?” Luke was shocked.

James shook his head. “Nope. And we stayed there, in that bar, for quite a while, and the people sang tons of carols that were very popular, _everyone_ knew them. But your dad, he didn’t know them.”

James put his arm around Lucifer. “Your dad’s never really celebrated Christmas, Luke. For him, it’s always been a rough time to get through. He never had very many people who cared about him in his life, so he never had anyone to spend Christmas with. And there’s no point to Christmas if there’s no loved ones to share it with. So Jay, he always just tried to plow through the Christmas season, just sort of duck down and let it all pass by him.”

“But he could spend Christmas with _us_. He’s not alone anymore.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late for your dad to start doing Christmas, Luke. Even if we invited him, I’m sure he’d totally forget.”

“He _was_ invited though, right?” Luke looked up with watery eyes.

“Of course,” James assured with a gentle squeeze. “I called him and let him know every day for the past week. But we can’t let our Christmas be ruined because someone can’t make it. Uncle Valentin and Papa Sherlock aren’t here, but I’m still determined to celebrate, as I know they’d want me to.”

“I just want to see him again,” Luke looked away, voice low. “That’s all….”

“Hey, cheer up, Luke. There’s always New Years! Jay always _loved_ New Years!”

Luke managed a small smile for James’ benefit, then managed to dry his eyes and join everyone in the family room for opening presents. At the stroke of midnight, everyone cheered _Merry Christmas!_ and tore into their presents. Smiles were radiating from every face, laughs were shared at some of the more comedic gifts, hugs were given over the more sentimental ones. Among the hullabaloo, no one noticed as Lucifer slipped away from the celebration to return to the study. He sat back down with his book, eyes trailing over the page to find where he had left off, when a small noise caught his attention. Looking up, he spotted box sitting on the desk that hadn’t been there before. The box made another muffled sound. Curious, Lucifer got up and went over, finding a card laying atop the box, with the word _Lucifer_ scrawled on the front. He opened the card:

 

 

 

_Luke,_

_It’s Christmas. Cheer up, little man. You know I’d never forget about you._

_Love,_

_Your Idiot Dad (that’s me)_

It took a minute for it all to process, but the moment it did, Luke set the card aside and removed the lid to the box. Inside sat a small, dark grey fluffy kitten, who stared up at Lucifer evenly with its eerie green eyes. Gently, Lucifer scooped up the kitten and held it close to his chest, where it purred and dozed off to sleep. With the utmost care not to wake the kitten, Lucifer browsed the internet until he found what breed his cat was, hoping its country of origin would help him pinpoint where his dad was. This little kitten was a Nebelung, a breed with a German-derived name but American origins; unfortunately, it didn’t help Lucifer in figure out where Jay could be.

The kitten woke back up, exploring Lucifer’s lap with curiosity before expanding his horizons to the desk, tip-toing around papers and pens. Lucifer watched, amused by the kitten’s antics. The kitten looked to Lucifer, tail twitching as he let out a cheery meow. Lucifer laughed just a little.

“Is that a Merry Christmas I hear from you, buddy?”

The kitten gave a throaty mew.

“Well Merry Christmas to you, too!”

From outside the study window, peaking through a small crack in the curtains, Jay could see Lucifer and his new kitten. Lucifer was smiling, twiddling his fingers to entice the small cat, laughing as it pounced onto his hand. Satisfied, Jay backed away from the window, trudging through the snow to get back to his car parked on the street. Lucifer was happy; that’s all Jay needed to be sure of. As long as he was happy, life could go on. He reached to open the door to his car, hesitating a moment as he looked back to the house, all lit up and cheery, the sounds of laughter still echoing faintly from the friends and family opening presents inside. Jay looked back at his car, cold, empty, a means of escape, an enabler to keep him from settling down. His heart ached knowing he was making a big mistake, knowing that he really should go inside the house, be with James, be with Lucifer, be with everyone who had done so much to see him happy.

But it was far too late for him. Wheels were set in motion that could not be stopped. Jay climbed into his car with an energy derived from anger and revved the engine. The car took a moment to warm up, and then the tires bit into the slush and Jay drove away, back to his life of chaos and unhappiness. He didn’t look back, didn’t look at the house that was offering to be his savior. He didn’t look back and see the face of his son, pressed up against the study room glass, knowing the sound of the engine better than the sleigh bells of Santa’s sleigh. Tears stuck to the glass as the sound of the car became faint, knowing that there was something utterly final about this specific departure. With a hardened heart, Lucifer rubbed the tears from his eyes and turned his back to the window, burying his nose in a book to forget the unpleasantness of his reality.


	60. Chapter 60

It was an overcast day in London, rainy to the point of discomfort but not rainy enough to warrant staying inside. It had been like that for several days, all gloomy and wet, as if London herself was depressed. James walked along the soggy sidewalk, umbrella held in one hand and hand gripping on to the hand of six-year-old Johnny, who huddled close to stay under the shelter of the umbrella, his blonde hair already plastered to his head, damp.

“Where are we going, Dad?” He asked curiously, noting the new stone path they turned onto.

“There’s someone I want you to meet,” James answered solemnly.

“Is it Sherlock Holmes?’ Johnny posed. “I sure hope so. Grandpa John is always telling us stories…”

“It is,” James answered. “He’s somewhere no one can find him. No one but his friends.”

A gust of wind blew up under the umbrella, chilling the two of them to the bone, and the rain started to come down with more force, battering the top of the umbrella and slanting just enough to assault the people underneath. The stone path took James and Johnny up hill, winding back and forth, and eventually petered out into nothing more than a dirt path. At the very top of the hill, James stopped, standing under the cover of a willow tree, the rain kept at bay by its thick canopy of tendrils. Johnny took in the scene, looking to James to explain. After a moment, James spoke up.

“Johnny, I’d like you to meet Sherlock Holmes.”

Johnny stared at the grave in silence, reading the letters carved into the dark marble: _William Sherlock Scott Holmes. A detective, a father, and a true friend_.

“He’s dead…” Johnny managed to say quietly.

But James wasn’t listening. He was watching Sherlock, who stood on the other side of Johnny, observing the grave with them.

“Waste of space, really,” he was saying. “Not sure why they don’t just cremate everyone. Then they could actually do something with this huge cemetery.” He turned and looked at Johnny, voice lowering. “He so much like you…. and like Kate…. And so much like John….”

“Dad, are you alright?” Johnny asked, worry etched into his face as he watched his father staring into space.

“I’m fine, Johnny.” James said quietly.

“Did you take your medicine today?”

James looked at Johnny painfully. “No. I never do when I come to visit mista Sherlock.”

“I think we should go, Dad.” Johnny took his father’s hand, knowing that he needed to get him home and get him medicated before something went wrong.

“No, I’m fine, Johnny,” James assured, ruffling his son’s damp hair. “Just a few more minutes, alright?”

The silence returned between the two of them, the only sound that of the increasingly powerful rain coming down. Johnny broke the silence when he spoke up.

“How did he die?”

“Hm..?” James looked to his son, eyes refocusing.

“How did Sherlock die, Dad?”

James looked to the grave. “He didn’t. Well, at least, we’re not sure he did. He was doing some work for Mr. Mycroft, in a dangerous country. And then one day, Sherlock didn’t contact him. Mr. Mycroft couldn’t get a hold of Sherlock either. He just… disappeared. No one ever found him. So we just assumed he was dead.”

“Like Uncle Tin?”

James shut his eyes as a pang of heartbreak stabbed through him. “Not exactly…”

He remembered getting the news like it had only been yesterday. He remembered reading the letter, so carefully written, informing James that Valentin had been caught in the act of espionage, that he had been jailed and put on trial, that he was sentenced to death. There were many more letters. Conversational letters to remember him by. James remembered when the last of these letters came, with only two sentences hastily scrawled: _Today’s the day they put me down. Remember me fondly_.

“Come on Johnny,” James took his son’s hand, positioning the umbrella overhead. “We still have to buy your sister a birthday present.”

“I told you, we buy her a horse!”

“Johnny’s, Lily’s only three. She can’t have a horse.”

“Well can _I_ have a horse?”

“No Johnny.”

The two of them made their way back down the hill, soaked by sheets of rain pouring restlessly down upon them. They made their way down the muddied dirt path, back onto the winding stone path, eventually making it down to where the sidewalk pasted the cemetery. James paused, looking back to the hill and the willow tree, staring up at the dark figure that stood there, watching. There would be no reason to come back to the grave. James looked at the figure, knowing it was just a hallucination, and in his head he thanked Sherlock for all he had done for him. Then he turned his back on the cemetery and began to walk away.

“Dad, who’s that on the hill…?” Johnny asked quizzically.

 James frowned intensely, turning back to the hill. _Could it have been more than a hallucination? Could it have been real?_ James squinted in the rain, trying to see, but the figure that had stood on the hill was gone.

“Dad..?” Johnny was still confused, not sure what he had seen.

James looked to his son, putting an arm around him. “It’s nothing Johnny. Come on, let’s get ourselves inside.”

As they made their way down the sidewalk, James looked to his son, who splashed in the puddles as if there was nothing more important in the world to do. James smiled fondly, loving his curious son with all his heart. He thought of his daughter, the little dark-haired Lillianna Cassandra, whose smile could brighten his day to no end. James thought of his wife, of the lovely Kate Eloise, who loved her children more than life, and who still found time to spend a romantic night with James, cuddled up with a good bottle of wine and some strawberries, fresh from their flowerbed garden. James smiled, knowing that things had turned out okay. That things would always be okay. And he had Sherlock to thank for all of it. He knew he’d never forget the man who risked so much to see James be happy. And James knew he’d do Sherlock proud taking care of his own family the same way.


End file.
